The Portable
JCHG
A rich, comprehensive selection
from all his work, designed to trace
the development of his thought.
Edited with an interpretative
introduction, chronology, notes,
and bibliography by JOSEPH CAMPBELL
Jung's text translated by R.F.C. HULL
704 pages
PENGUIN BOOKS
THE PORTABLE JUNG
Born in New York in 1904, Joseph Campbell
earned his B.A. and M.A. degrees at Colum-
bia in 1925 and 1927. He went on to study
medieval French and Sanskrit at the univei>
sities of Paris and Munich, and it was in the
latter city that he became acquainted with
the work of Jung. Returning to the United
States at the time of the great Depression, he
visited California (where he met John Stein-
beck and the biologist Ed Ricketts), taught
at the Canterbury School, and, in 1934,
joined the literature department at Sarah
Lawrence College, a post he retained for
many years. During the 1940s and '50s, he
helped Swami Nikhilananda to translate the
Upanishads and The Gospel of Sri Rama-
krishna. Professor Campbell's numerous
books include The Hero with a Thousand
Faces; Myths to Live By; The Flight of the
Wild Gander; a four-volume study, The
Masks of God; and The Mythic Image. In
addition to The Portable Jung, he has edited
The Portable Arabian Nights.
The Portable
JUNGM
Edited, with an Introduction, by
JOSEPH CAMPBELL
Translated by R. F. C. Hull
PENGUIN BOOKS
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First published in the United States of America
by The Viking Press 1971
Reprinted 1972 (twice), 1973 (twice), 1974 (twice), I975i 1976
Published in Penguin Books 1976
Reprinted 1977
The Colta ted Works oj C. G. Jung, translated by R. F. C. Hull, pub-
lished by Princeton University Press as Bollingen Series XX, is covered
b> the following copyrights: volume 6 copyright © Princeton University
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voi 1 mi 7, second edition, copyright © Bollingen Foundation, Inc.,
volume 8 copyright © Bollingen Foundation, Inc., i960, volume
8, lecond edition, copyright Princeton University Press, 1969. volume
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»OlUmi 9, Pan II, copyright © Bollingen Foundation Inc., 1959.
volume 10 copyright © Bollingen Foundation, Inc., 1964. volume 10,
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copyright < Bollingen Foundation, Inc., 1953, 1968. volume 15 copy-
C Bollingen Foundation, Inc., 1966. volume 17 copyright 1954
by Bollmgcn loundation, Inc.
Copyright ©The Viking Press, Inc., 1971
All rights reserved
LIBRARY Of CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA
Jung, Carl Gusiav, 1875-1961. The portable Jung.
Reprint of the 1971 cd. published by The Viking Press, New York,
which was issued as no. 70 of the Viking portable library.
Bibliography: p.
x. Psychoanalysis. I. Campbell, Joseph, 1904— II. Title.
|M»-I73 JOG23 1976I I5o'.I9'54o8 76-44022
isbn o 14 015.070 6
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Contents
Editor's Introduction vii
Chronology xxxiii
PARTI
i f The Stages of Life 3
2. The Structure of the Psyche 23
3. Instinct and the Unconscious 47
4. The Concept of the Collective Unconscious 59
5. The Relations Between the Ego and the
Unconscious 70
6. Aion: Phenomenology of the Self
(The Ego, the Shadow, the Syzygy:
Anima/Animus) 139
7. Marriage as a Psychological Relationship 163
8. Psychological Types 178
PART II
9. The Transcendent Function 273
10. On the Relation of Analytical Psychology to
Poetry 301
11. Individual Dream Symbolism in Relation to
Alchemy 323
12. The Spiritual Problem of Modern Man 456
13. The Difference Between Eastern and Western
Thinking 480
PART III
14. On Synchronicity 505
15. Answer to Job 519
Appendix 651
Editor's Introduction
The first task, on approaching such a mobile model of the
living psyche as Carl G. Jung's, must be to become familiar
as quickly as possible with its variables. To this end I
have opened this anthology with papers introducing the
elementary terms and themes of Jung's psychology. Once
acquainted with these, the reader will be prepared to
range at will through The Collected Works; and my
second aim, consequently, has been to provide a usable
guide to that treasury of learning. For Jung was not only
a medical man but a scholar in the grand style, whose
researches, particularly in comparative mythology, al-
chemy, and the psychology of religion, have inspired and
augmented the findings of an astonishing number of the
leading creative scholars of our time. Evidence of this will
be found in the forty-odd volumes already published of
the continuing Eranos-Jahrbuch series, 1 where stand the
1 Eranos-Jahrbitcher (Zurich: Rhein-Vcrlag, 1933 ). Six vol-
umes of selected papers have been published in English, under my
editorship, translated by Ralph Manheim, Papers from the Eranos
Yearbooks, Bollingen Series XXX (New York: Pantheon Books,
1954, 1955, 1957, i960, 1964, 1969).
viii ; Editor's Introduction
contributions of some two hundred major scholars, render-
ing matters of their special fields in the light of — and as
relevant to — the culture-historical studies of Carl G. Jung,
My final aim, accordingly, has been to provide such a
primer and handbook to Jung's writings that if a reader
will proceed faithfully from the first page to the last, he
will emerge not only with a substantial understanding of
Analytical Psychology, but also with a new realization
of the relevance of the mythic lore of all peoples to his
own psychological opus magnum of Individuation.
J. Childhood and Student Years {1875-1900)
Carl Gustav Jung was born July 26, 1875, in Kesswil,
Switzerland, on Lake Constance. His paternal grandfather,
after whom he was named, had moved from Germany in
1822, when Alexander von Humboldt obtained an appoint-
ment for him as professor of surgery at the University of
Basel. His father, Johann Paul Achilles Jung (1842-
1896), was a clergyman, and his mother, Emilie Preiswerk
Jung (1848-1923), was the daughter of a long-established
Basel family. When the boy was four, his parents moved
to Klein-Huningen, near Basel, and it was there his educa-
tion began. His father taught him Latin, and his mother,
as he tells in a volume of old-age reminiscences, Memories,
Dreams, Reflections, read to him of exotic religions from
an illustrated children's book, to which he constantly re-
turned to view with fascination its pictures of Hindu gods.
During early youth, Jung thought of archaeology as
a career. Theology, too, interested him, though not in his
father's sense; for the concept of Christ's life as the sole
decisive feature in the drama of God and man he regarded
as belying Christ's own teaching that the Holy Ghost
would take his place among men after his death. He
regarded Jesus as a man; hence, either fallible or a mere
mouthpiece of the Holy Ghost, who, in turn, was "a mani-
festation of the inconceivable God."
Editor's Introduction : ix
One day, in the library of a college classmate's father,
the questing youth chanced on a small book on spiritualistic
phenomena that immediately caught and absorbed him;
for the phenomena described were like those of stories
he had been hearing in the Swiss countryside since child-
hood. Furthermore, he knew that similar tales were re-
ported from all parts of the world. They could not be the
products of religious superstition, since religious teachings
differ and these accounts were alike. They must be con-
nected, he thought, with the objective behavior of the
psyche. Interest ignited, he read jravenously; but among
his friends he encountered only resistance to the subject, a
curious, hard resistance that amazed him.
"I had the feeling," he declares, "that I had pushed to
the brink of the world; what was of burning interest to me
was null and void for others, and even a cause of dread.
Dread of what? I could find no explanation for this.
After all, there was nothing preposterous and world-shaking
in the idea that there might be events which overstepped
the limited categories of space, time, and causality. Animals
were known to sense beforehand storms and earthquakes.
There were dreams which foresaw the death of certain
persons, clocks which stopped at the moment of death,
glasses which shattered at the critical moment. All these
things had been taken for granted in the world of my
childhood. And now I was apparently the only person
who had ever heard of them. In all earnestness I asked
myself what kind of world I had stumbled into. Plainly
the urban world knew nothing about the country world,
the real world of mountains, woods, and rivers, of animals
and 'God's thoughts' (plants and crystals). I found this
explanation comforting. At all events, it bolstered my
self-esteem."
What decided this young scholar of philosophical bent
to enter medicine has not, as far as I know, been told. It
was possibly the imposing model of his very distinguished
grandfather of Humboldt's time. But he has himself de-
scribed the strange events that turned him, in the last
x : Editor's Introduction
months of his medical schooling, from medicine and sur-
gery to psychiatry.
While following his required courses, he had been avidly
reading, on Sundays, in Kant and Goethe, Hartmann,
Schopenhauer and Nietzsche; but again had found, when
he thought to talk of such authors to his friends, that no
one wanted to hear of them. All his friends wanted were
facts, and all he had for them was talk — until, one day,
there came to him something as solid and cold as steel.
He was in his room, studying, with the door half open
to the dining room, where his widowed mother was knitting
by the window, when a loud report sounded, like a pistol
shot, and the circular walnut table beside her had split
from the rim to beyond the center — a table of solid walnut,
dried and seasoned for some seventy years. Two weeks
later, the young medical student, returning home at evening,
found his mother, his fourteen-year-old sister, and the
maid in high agitation. About an hour earlier, another
deafening crack had come from the neighborhood of a
heavy nineteenth-century sideboard, which the women had
then examined without finding any sign. Nearby, in the
cupboard containing the breadbasket, however, Jung dis-
covered the breadknife with its steel blade broken to
pieces: in one corner of the basket, its handle; in each
of the others, a fraction of the blade. To the end of his
life Jung preserved the fragments of that concrete fact.
A few weeks later he learned of certain relatives engaged
in table-turning, who had a medium, a young girl of fifteen
and a half, who produced somnambulistic states and
spiritualistic phenomena. Invited to participate, Jung im-
mediately conjectured that the manifestations in his moth-
er's house might be connected with that medium. He
joined the sessions and, for the next two years, meticulously
took notes, until, in the end, the medium, feeling her
powers failing, began to cheat, and Jung departed.
Meanwhile, he was still at medical school, and in due
season the time arrived for the state examination. His
professor in psychology had been "not exactly," in his
Editor's Introduction : xi
judgment, "stimulating." Moreover, in the medical world
of that time, psychiatry was held in contempt. So in pre-
paring himself he had reserved for the last his psychiatric
textbook, Krafft-Ebing's Lehrbuch der Psychiatrie, which
he opened with the unpromising thought, "Well, now let's
see what a psychiatrist has to say for himself."
Beginning with the preface, he read: "It is probably due
to the peculiarity of the subject and its incomplete state
of development that psychiatric textbooks are stamped
with a more or less subjective character." A few lines
further on, Krafft-Ebing termed psychoses "diseases of the
personality," and the reader's heart began suddenly to
pound. He had to stand and draw a deep breath. His
excitement was intense; for, as he tells, "it had become
clear to me in a flash of illumination, that for me the only
possible goal was psychiatry." Here, and here alone, was
the empirical field common to spiritual and biological facts.
2. The Scholar Physician: First Period (i 900-1 907)
Collected Works: Volume 1. Psychiatric Studies
(1902-1906)
Volume 2. Experimental Researches
(1904-1907)
December 10, 1900, the twenty-five-year-old Carl Jung
assumed his post as First Assistant Physician at the Burg-
holzli Psychiatric Clinic in Zurich, under Eugen Bleuler,
whom he recognized gratefully all his life as the first of
his only two teachers; Pierre Janet, at the Salpetriere in
Paris, with whom he studied for a term in 1902, being
the second. Under Bleuler he completed in 1902 his doc-
toral dissertation, "On the Psychology and Pathology of
So-Called Occult Phenomena" (Collected Works, Vol. 1),
analyzing the medium and seances of his two-year adven-
ture in the occult, with a review of earlier published
studies of somnambulism, hystero-epilepsy, amnesia, and
xii : Editor's Introduction
other related twilight states. And what is here remarkable
is that already in this earliest work there appear at least
five major themes that were to recur as leitmotifs through
all of Jung's later thinking.
The first is of the autonomy of unconscious psychic
contents. During states of semi-somnambulism or preoccu-
pation, such autonomous elements may assume control,
producing "automatisms" of various sorts: hallucinatory
visions, sensations, or voices (which may be interpreted as
of spirits), automatic movements, writings, etc. If the com-
position of such an autonomous complex becomes, in the
course of time, reinforced, a second, "unconscious" per-
sonality can be built up, which can then, under releasing
conditions, take over. In the case of his medium, Jung was
able to identify in her recent experiences the sources of
many of her fantasies; noting that even normally in
adolescence, which is when the future ego-complex is being
formed, analogous splittings occur.
And this enabled him to put forward a second idea
destined to remain fundamental in his thinking, namely, of
such a psychological disturbance, as having teleological
significance, i.e. as transitional under crisis, protective yet
pointing forward, giving the individual, who would other-
wise inevitably succumb to threatening circumstance, "the
means of victory."
A third and a fourth point demonstrated in this paper
were not only that the unconscious is a carrier of memories
lost to consciousness, but also that it is an intuiting agent
of a receptivity "far exceeding that of the conscious mind";
to which latter point Jung quoted the French psychiatrist
Alfred Binet, to the effect that, according to his calcula-
tions, "the unconscious sensibility of an hysterical patient
is at certain moments fifty times more acute than that of a
normal person."
Finally, Jung remarked in this first paper of his long
career that a curious mythological concept of the cosmos
which the young medium one day brought forth with
joyful face as having been "revealed" to her by the spirits,
Editor's Introduction : xiii
resembled other occult "systems" scattered about in works
to which this girl would have had no access. Constructed
of fragmentary components received from various iden-
tifiable sources, her system had been put together below
or beyond the field of her conscious mind and presented
to her as an image already formed. Jung's conclusion, to
be developed in his later writings, was that, inherent in
the human psyche, there is a patterning force, which may,
at various times and in places out of touch with each other,
spontaneously put forth similar constellations of fantasy;
so that, as he states in a later volume: "One could almost
say that if all the world's traditions were cut off at a single
blow, the whole mythology and the whole history of
religion would start all over again with the next generation."
In 1903 this brilliant youth set up in the Burgholzli
Clinic a laboratory for experimental psychopathology,
where, with a number of students and with Dr. Franz
Riklin as collaborator, he undertook to investigate psychic
reactions by means of association tests. The basic concept
supporting this method was of the "feeling tone" (Bleuler's
term: "an affective state accompanied by somatic inner-
vations") as a binding force by which constellations of
ideas are held together, whether in the conscious or in the
unconscious mind, the conscious ego itself and the whole
mass of ideas pertaining to it being but one such "feeling-
toned complex."
"The ego," Jung states in the culminating paper of this
period, a work on "The Psychology of Dementia Praecox"
{Collected Works, Vol. 3), which he later sent to Freud,
"is the psychological expression of the firmly associated
combinations of all body sensations. One's own per-
sonality is therefore the firmest and strongest complex,
and (good health permitting) it weathers all psychological
storms." However: "Reality sees to it that the peaceful
cycle of egocentric ideas is constantly interrupted by ideas
with a strong feeling-tone, that is, by affects. A situation
threatening danger pushes aside the tranquil play of ideas
and puts in their place a complex of other ideas with a
xiv : Editor's Introduction
very strong feeling-tone. The new complex then crowds
everything else into the background. For the time being it
is the most distinct because it totally inhibits all other
ideas." It was by touching and activating a subject's feeling-
toned associations that the word test exposed the hidden
"facts" of his life. And it was in response to Jung's early
publications on this topic that he acquired his first pro-
fessional reputation.
Jung in 1903 had married Emma Rauschenbach, who
was to become the mother of four daughters and a son,
and to remain his close collaborator until the day of her
death in 1955. Two years after the marriage he became
Senior Physician at the clinic and was appointed Lecturer
in Psychiatry at the University of Zurich, where he dealt
chiefly with hypnosis and researches in somnambulism,
automatism, hysteria, etc. It was largely as the result of a
little miracle that occurred in this lecture class that his
private practice suddenly acquired dimension.
A middle-aged woman on crutches came into the room
one day, led by a maid. She had for seventeen years been
suffering a painful paralysis of the left leg; and when he
had placed her in a comfortable chair, bidding her tell her
story, she went on at such interminable length that he had
finally to interrupt. ''Well now," he said, "we have no more
time for so much talk. I am now going to hypnotize you."
Whereupon she closed her eyes and fell into a profound
trance without any hypnosis at all, continuing, meanwhile,
her talking, relating the most remarkable dreams. The
situation for the baffled young instructor,* before his twenty
students, was becoming increasingly uncomfortable; and
when he tried to wake her, without success, he became
alarmed. It took some ten minutes to bring her to, and
when she woke, she was giddy and confused. He said
to her, "I am the doctor; everything is all right." At which
she cried out, "But I am cured!" threw away her crutches,
and was able to walk. Flushed with embarrassment, Jung
said to the students, "Now you've seen what can be done
with hypnosis!" whereas, in fact, he had not the slightest
Editor's Introduction : xv
idea what had happened. The woman departed in the best
of spirits to proclaim her cure, and himself as a wizard,
far and wide.
3. The Scholar Physician: Second Period (1907-1912)
Collected Works:
Volume 3. The Psychogeneses of Mental Disease
(1907-11/1914-39/1957-58)
Volume 4. Freud and Psychoanalysis (1906-12/
1913-30/1949)
Volume 5. Symbols of Transformation (I. 1911;
II. 1912/1952)
Also, one item in Vol. 17 (see below, p. 659).
Jung's acquaintance with the writings of Freud com-
menced in 1900, the year of publication of The Interpreta-
tion of Dreams, which he read at Bleuler's suggestion but
was not yet prepared to appreciate. Three years later,
returning to the book, he realized that it offered the best
explanation he had found of the mechanism of the repres-
sions observed in his word-association experiments. He
could not, however, accept Freud's identification of the
content of repression as invariably a sexual trauma, since
from his own practice he was familiar with cases in which
(to quote his words) "the question of sexuality played a
subordinate part, other factors standing in the foreground —
for example, the problem of social adaptation, of oppres-
sion by tragic circumstances of life, prestige considerations,
and so on."
Jung opened an exchange with Freud by sending him
in 1906 a collection of his early papers entitled Studies
in Word Association r to which Freud graciously re-
a These were: "The Association of Normal Subjects** (1904);
"Reaction-Time in Association Experiments" (1905); "Experimen-
tal Observations on Memory" (1905); and "Psychoanalysis and
Association Experiments" (1905). All are assigned to Collected
Works, Vol. 2, "Experimental Researches."
xvi : Editor's Introduction
sponded; and Jung went to visit him in Vienna. They met
at one in the afternoon and talked for thirteen hours,
almost without let.
The next year Jung sent his monograph on "The Psy-
chology of Dementia Praecox" and again was invited to
Vienna, but with his wife this time, and affairs took
another turn.
"When I arrived in Vienna with my young and happy
wife," Jung told a visitor, Dr. John M. Billinsky, 3 in
1957, "Freud came to see us at the hotel and brought
some flowers for my wife. He was trying to be very con-
siderate and at one point said to me, 'I am sorry that I
can give you no real hospitality. I have nothing at home
but an elderly wife.' When my wife heard him say that,
she looked perplexed and embarrassed. At Freud's home
that evening, during dinner, I tried to talk to Freud and
his wife about psychoanalysis and Freud's activities, but I
soon discovered that Mrs. Freud knew absolutely nothing
about what Freud was doing. It was very obvious that
there was a very superficial relationship between Freud
and his wife.
"Soon I met Freud's wife's younger sister. She was very
good-looking, and she not only knew enough about psy-
choanalysis but also about everything Freud was doing.
When, a few days later, I was visiting Freud's laboratory,
his sister-in-law asked me if she could talk with me. She
was very much bothered by her relationship with Freud
and felt guilty about it. From her I learned that Freud
was in love with her and that their friendship was indeed
very intimate. It was a shocking discovery to me, and even
now 1 recall the agony I felt at the time."
The following year, 1908, Jung attended in Vienna the
First International Congress of Psycho-Analysis; and it
'Guiles Professor of Psychology and Clinical Studies at Andover
Newton Theological School, Newton Center, Mass. His article, "Jung
and Freud," from which 1 quote, appeared in the Andover Newton
Quarterly, Vol. 10, No. 2 (November 1969), pp. 39-43.
Editor's Introduction : xvii
was there that he met the greater part of that distinguished
company which, in the next years, was to make the psy-
choanalytic movement known to the world. The next
spring, 1909, found Jung once again in Vienna, and on
this occasion Freud — his elder by nineteen years — confided
to him kindly that he was adopting him "as an eldest son,
anointing him as successor and crown prince." However,
when the anointed later asked what his adopting elder's
views might be on precognition and parapsychology, Freud
replied abruptly: Sheer nonsense! — "and in terms," states
Jung, "of so shallow a positivism that I had difficulty in
checking the sharp retort on the tip of my tongue."
"I had a curious sensation," Jung continues in his
account of this first real crisis in their friendship. "It was
as if my diaphragm were made of iron and were becoming
red-hot — a glowing vault. And at that moment there was
such a loud report in the bookcase, which stood right next
to us, that we started up in alarm, fearing the thing was
going to topple over on us. I said to Freud: There, that
is an example of a so-called catalytic exteriorization phe-
nomenon.'
" 'Oh come!' he exclaimed. That is sheer bosh.'
" 'It is not,' I replied. 'You are mistaken, Herr Pro-
fessor. And to prove my point I now predict that in a
moment there will be another such loud report!' Sure
enough, no sooner had I said the words than the same
detonation went off in the bookcase. . . . Freud only
stared aghast at me. I do not know what was in his mind,
or what his look meant. In any case, this incident aroused
his mistrust of me, and I had the feeling that I had done
something against him." 4
It is hardly surprising, after such a display of shamanism
on the part of his newly adopted "son," that the "father"
4 C. G. Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, recorded and edited
by Aniela JafTe, translated by Richard and Clara Winston (New
York: Pantheon Books, 1963), pp. 155-56; see Freud's letter of
attempted interpretation, ibid., pp. 361-63.
xviii ; Editor's Introduction
(with his idee fixe about Oedipus) should, on their next
occasion, have suffered a hysterical crisis. This occurred
that fall, in Bremen, where they had met to embark for
America, invited, both, to Clark University to receive
honorary degrees. Jung had been reading of the peat-bog
corpses brought to light in Denmark: bodies from the
Iron Age, perfectly preserved, which he had hoped to see
while in the North. And when he began talking of these,
there was something about his persistence that began to get
on Freud's nerves. Several times Freud asked why he was
so concerned about those corpses; and when, at dinner,
Jung went on, Freud suddenly fainted — having conceived
the idea, as he later explained, that Jung had death wishes
against him.
"From the very beginning of our trip," Jung confided
to Dr. Billinsky, fifty years later, "we started to analyze
each other's dreams. Freud had some dreams that bothered
him very much. The dreams were about the triangle —
Freud, his wife, and wife's younger sister. Freud had no
idea that I knew about the triangle and his intimate rela-
tionship with his sister-in-law. And so, when Freud told
me about the dream in which his wife and her sister played
important parts, I asked him to tell me some of his
personal associations with the dream. He looked at me
with bitterness and said, 'I could tell you more, but I cannot
risk my authority.' That, of course, finished my attempt
to deal with his dreams. ... If Freud had tried to under-
stand consciously the triangle, he would have been much,
much better off."
The next traumatic event occurred in 19 10, the year of
the Second Congress of the Association of Psycho-Analysis,
where Freud proposed, and even insisted against organized
opposition, that Jung should be appointed Permanent
President. "My dear Jung," he urged on this occasion, as
Jung tells, "promise me never to abandon the sexual theory.
That is the most essential thing of all. You see, we must
make a dogma of it, an unshakable bulwark." He said this
Editor's Introduction : xix
with great emotion, in the tone (states Jung) of a father
saying, "And promise me this one thing, my dear son:
that you will go to church every Sunday." In some aston-
ishment Jung asked him, "A bulwark — against what?" To
which he replied, "Against the black tide of mud" — and
here he hesitated for a moment, then added — "of oc-
cultism."
"First of all," comments Jung on this episode, "it was
the words 'bulwark' and 'dogma' that alarmed me; for a
dogma, that is to say, an undisputable confession of faith,
is set up only when the aim is to suppress doubts once
and for all. But that no longer has anything to do with
scientific judgment; only with a personal power drive.
"This was the thing that struck at the heart of our
friendship. I knew that I would never be able to accept
such an attitude. What Freud seemed to mean by 'oc-
cultism' was virtually everything that philosophy and re-
ligion, including the rising contemporary science of para-
psychology, had learned about the psyche. To me the
sexual theory was just as occult, that is to say, just as un-
proven a hypothesis, as many other speculative views. As
I saw it, a scientific truth was a hypothesis that might be
adequate for the moment but was not to be preserved as
an article of faith for all time."
The incompatibility of the two minds was clear; yet they
contrived to work together until the next congress, in 19 12,
in Munich, where Freud was again overwhelmed by his
oedipal myth. Someone had turned the talk to Ikhnaton,
suggesting that because of a negative attitude toward his
father he had destroyed his father's cartouches on the
steles, and that in back of his creation of a monotheistic
religion there lay, therefore, a father complex. Jung, irri-
tated by such talk, responded that Ikhnaton had held his
father's memory in honor and that what his zeal had
been directed against was the name of the god Amon:
other pharaohs had replaced their fathers' names with
their own, feeling they had a right to do so as incarnations
xx : Editor s Introduction
of the same god; yet they had not inaugurated a new
religion. ... On hearing which words, Freud slid off his
chair in a faint.
Many have held that the break in the friendship of these
two was caused by Jung's publication of his altogether
non-Freudian work, Symbols of Transformation {Collected
Works, Vol. 5; Part I, 1911; Part II, 1912). However,
this was not quite Jung's own view, although the book
certainly played a part. "The only thing he saw in my
work," Jung said in his talk with Dr. Billinsky, "was
'resistance to the father' — my wish to destroy the father.
When I tried to point out to him my reasoning about the
libido, his attitude toward me was one of bitterness and
rejection." More deeply, however, as Jung went on to
explain: "It was my knowledge of Freud's triangle that
became a very important factor in my break with Freud.
And then," he continued, "I could not accept Freud's
placing authority above truth."
Jung's approach to the writing of his decisive — and
divisive — work, Symbols of Transformation , commenced
in 1909, the year of that trip to America. He had just
begun his study of mythology and in the course of the
readings came across Friedrich Creuzer's Symbolik und
Mythologie der alten Volker (1810-1823), which, as he
declares, "fired" him. He worked like mad through a moun-
tain of mythological material, continued through the Gnos-
tic writers, and ended in total confusion; then chanced
on a scries of fantasies of a certain Miss Miller of New
York, published in the Archives de Psychologic by his
revered friend Theodore Flournoy. He was immediately
struck by the mythological character of the fantasies and
found that they operated as a catalyst on the stored-up
ideas within him. He commenced writing, and, as he told
in later years of the composition of this pivotal work of
his career: "It was the explosion of all those psychic
contents which could find no room, no breathing space,
in the constricting atmosphere of Freudian psychology
Editor's Introduction : xxi
and its narrow outlook." "It was written at top speed, amid
the rush and press of my medical practice, without regard
to time or method. I had to fling my material hastily to-
gether, just as I found it. There was no opportunity to let
my thoughts mature. The whole thing came upon me like a
landslide that cannot be stopped." Egyptian, Babylonian,
Hindu, Classical and Gnostic, Germanic and American
Indian materials came clustering about the fantasies of a
modern American woman on the brink of a schizophrenic
breakdown. And Jung's experience in the course of this
labor transformed his entire point of view with respect to
the task of interpreting psychological symbols.
"Hardly had I finished the manuscript," he states, "when
it struck me what it means to live with a myth, and what
it means to live without one. Myth, says a Church Father,
is 'what is believed always, everywhere, by everybody';
hence the man who thinks he can live without myth, or
outside it, is an exception. He is like one uprooted, having
no true link either with the past, or with the ancestral life
which continues within him, or yet with contemporary
human society. This plaything of his reason never grips
his vitals. It may occasionally be heavy on his stomach, for
that organ is apt to reject the products of reason as in-
digestible. The psyche is not of today; its ancestry goes
back many millions of years. Individual consciousness is
only the flower and the fruit of a season, sprung from the
perennial rhizome beneath the earth; and it would find
itself in better accord with the truth if it took the existence
of the rhizome into its calculations. For the root matter
is the mother of all things."
It was this radical shift of ground from a subjective
and personal istic, essentially biographical approach to the
reading of the symbolism of the psyche, to a larger, culture-
historical, mythological orientation, that then became the
characteristic of Jung's psychology. He asked himself,
"What is the myth you are living?" and found that he did
not know. "So, in the most natural way, I took it upon
xxii : Editor's Introduction
myself to get to know 'my' myth, and I regarded this as
the task of tasks; for — so I told myself — how could I,
when treating my patients, make due allowance for the
personal factor, for my personal equation, which is yet so
necessary for a knowledge of the other person, if I was
unconscious of it? I simply had to know what unconscious
or preconscious myth was forming me, from what rhizome
I sprang. This resolve led me to devote many years of my
life to investigating the subjective contents which are the
products of unconscious processes, and to work out meth-
ods which would enable us, or at any rate help us, to
explore the manifestations of the unconscious."
Briefly summarized, the essential realizations of this
pivotal work of Jung's career were, first, that since the
archetypes or norms of myth are common to the human
species, they are inherently expressive neither of local
social circumstance nor of any individual's singular ex-
perience, but of common human needs, instincts, and po-
tentials; second, that in the traditions of any specific folk,
local circumstance will have provided the imagery through
which the archetypal themes are displayed in the supporting
myths of the culture; third, that if the manner of life and
thought of an individual so departs from the norms of the
species that a pathological state of imbalance ensues, of
neurosis or psychosis, dreams and fantasies analogous to
fragmented myths will appear; and fourth, that such dreams
are best interpreted, not by reference backward to repressed
infantile memories (reduction to autobiography), but by
comparison outward with the analogous mythic forms
(amplification to mythology), so that the disturbed in-
dividual may learn to see himself depersonalized in the
mirror of the human spirit and discover by analogy the
way to his own larger fulfillment. Dreams, in Jung's view,
are the natural reaction of the self-regulating psychic
system and, as such, point forward to a higher, potential
health, not simply backward to past crises. The posture of
the unconscious is compensatory to consciousness, and its
Editor's Introduction : xxiii
productions, dreams, and fantasies, consequently, are not
only corrective but also prospective, giving clues, if prop-
erly read, to those functions and archetypes of the psyche
pressing, at the moment, for recognition.
4. The Scholar Physician: Master Period (1912-1946)
Collected Works:
Volume 6. Psychological Types (1921)
Volume 7. Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
(1912-43)
Volume 8. The Structure and Dynamics of the
Psyche (19 16-45/1947-52)
Volume 9.L The Archetypes and the Collective Un-
conscious (1934-45/1948-55)
Volume 10. Civilization in Transition (1918-46/
1957-59)
Volume 11. Psychology and Religion: West and East
(1928-44/1948-54)
Volume 12. Psychology and Alchemy (1936-44)
Volume 13. Alchemical Studies (1929-45/1948-54)
Volume 15. The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature
(1922-41/1950)
Volume 16. The Practice of .Psychotherapy (1921-
46/1951)
Volume 17. The Development of Personality (1910/
1925-46)
The years from the opening of World War I to the close
of World War II were the prime of Jung s maturity — and,
as the reader possibly has noted, all but three of the papers
of this Portable are from the writings of those years. The
period began, however, with a season of profound dis-
orientation. Even before the break with Freud, Jung's
readings in mythology had turned his center of concern
from the daylight world of time, space, and personalities
xxiv : Editor's Introduction
to a timeless eviternity of satyrs, nymphs, centaurs, and
dragons to be slain. In 1909 he resigned his post at the
Burgholzli Clinic; largely, as he tells, because he was over
his head in work, having so large a private practice he
could no longer keep up with his tasks. Then, when he
had renounced Freud's dogma, the whole psychoanalytic
community turned against him, launching even a paranoiac
campaign of character assassination. Cut off in these sev-
eral ways from all his earlier professional associates and
even many of his former friends, he was left to wallow in
a mercurial sea of fantasies and mythologies, his patients'
dreams and his own. And, as he tells, in this condition of
uncertainty he decided that in his work with patients he
should not bring theoretical premises to bear, but only wait
and see what they would tell of their own accord. They
spontaneously recounted dreams, and he would ask, sim-
ply, "What occurs to you in connection with that?" or
"How do you mean that, where does it come from, what
do you think about it?" — leaving everything open to
chance. In his own fantasying he was being reminded,
meanwhile, that in childhood he had enjoyed building-
blocks and had gone on to constructing little towns and
castles of stones and mud: accordingly, he decided to try
going back to that childhood game; and what he presently
found was that it was releasing in him streams of fantasy,
which he soon began to record. Next he began embellish-
ing his chronicle of these fantasies with ornamental de-
signs, which soon led to larger pictorial figurations,' which,
for a time, he was led to believe might be "Art," but then
realized were not. They were X-rays of his spiritual state.
Toward the autumn of 19 13, Jung was overcome and
deeply troubled by a series of appalling visions of the
whole of Europe drowning in blood. The World War broke
out the following August: and it was as though a general
schizophrenic eruption of autonomous feeling-toned com-
plexes had shattered forever the rationalized surface of
Occidental thought and civilization. On the one remaining
Editor's Introduction : xxv
island of peace, Jung, like a number of others in those
years, set himself the task of exploring deeply the spiritual
history of European man, in order to identify, and if pos-
sible transcend, the compulsions of irrational self-destruc-
tion. His fantasies and dreams, meanwhile, were revealing
to him the same archetypes from within that he had al-
ready come to know as of world mythology, and his
ornamental designs were developing into mandalas, magic
circles, "cryptograms concerning the state of the self,"
such as in the Orient had been used for centuries as sup-
ports for meditation. "In what myth," he was asking, "does
man live nowadays? Or do we no longer have any myth?"
It is in point to remark that James Joyce, during those
years, was also in Zurich, composing Ulysses; Lenin, too,
was there, incubating world revolution; Hugo Ball, Richard
Huelsenbeck, Hans Arp, and Tristan Tzara, likewise, in-
venting Dada as a protest against rationalized organization;
while in Germany Thomas Mann was at work on the ma-
terials of The Magic Mountain, and Oswald Spengler was
revising and augmenting his prophetic Decline of the West.
The fruit of Jung's thinking appeared in 192 1 in the monu-
mental tome (now Volume 6 of The Collected Works),
Psychological Types, or The Psychology of Individuation.
This was a work of more than 700 pages, the first 470
dealing with an astounding range of philosophical specula-
tions from India, China and Japan, Classical antiquity,
Gnosticism and the Early Fathers, the Middle Ages, Refor-
mation, Renaissance, Baroque and Enlightenment, Kant,
Goethe, Schiller, Hegel, Schopenhauer, Wagner, Nietzsche,
and assorted moderns: all concerned with the single theme
of psychological types. And in the last 240 pages Jung's
own formulation appears (in the present volume, Selection
8), along with a glossary of basic Jungian terms and a con-
clusion discussing the relevance of a recognition of psy-
chological differences to an appreciation of the relativity
of all so-called "truths" and "facts" to the organs of their
perceivers.
xxvi : Editor's Introduction
Jung assigns the leading part in the differentiation of
types to what he terms the "Four Functions of Conscious-
ness"; noticing that whereas one person may favor thought
as a guide to judgment, another will follow feeling; and
whereas one will tend to experience both the world and
his friends through impressions made directly on his senses,
another will be given, rather, to intuiting potentialities,
hidden relationships, intentions, and possible sources. Sen-
sation and Intuition are the two functions, according to
this view, by which "facts" and the "fact world" are ap-
prehended; Feeling and Thinking, those of judging and
evaluating. But as Jung observes and shows — and here is
the crux of his argument — only one of these four functions
takes the lead in the governance of a person's life, and it
is seconded, normally, by only one (not both) from the
other duad; as, for example, Thinking supported by Sen-
sation, or Sensation supported by Thinking: both of which
combinations (characteristic of modern Western man)
leave Feeling and Intuition disregarded, undeveloped, or
even repressed and, consequently, in the unconscious, sus-
ceptible to activation and outburst as autonomous com-
plexes, either in the way of demoniacal seizures, or, more
mildly, uncontrollable moods.
Jung names such a turnover, such a transfer of leader-
ship from conscious to unconscious factors, enantiodromia,
a "running the other way," which is a term borrowed from
Heraclitus, who taught that everything in time turns into
its opposite. "Out of life," Heraclitus wrote, "comes death
and out of death life, out of the young the old, and out
of the old the young, out of waking sleep and out of sleep
waking, the stream of creation and dissolution never
stops." The idea is fundamental to Jung's psychology, and
applies, furthermore, to all pairs-of-opposites: interchanges
not only of the four functions but also of those two con-
trary dispositions of psychic energy that Jung has termed
Extraversion and Introversion.
Jung recalls in his autobiographical volume, Memories,
Editor's Introduction : xxvii
Dreams, Reflections, that even while associated with the
psychoanalytic movement he had remarked that, where
Freud named sexuality as the controlling psychological
force, Alfred Adler (who soon left the movement to de-
velop in his own direction) put the Will to Power; and
each was such a monotheist that he could brook no con-
tradiction. Jung, on the other hand, had been a polytheist
all his life; that is to say, had always known that the ulti-
mate "One" which cannot be named (the "inconceivable
God") is manifest in many forms, these appearing as pairs-
of-opposites; so that anybody fixing his eyes on but one is
left open at the back to the other; whereas the art is to
learn of both, to recognize and come to a knowledge of
both: again, in the words of Heraclitus, "Good and evil
are one," and, "God is day and night, summer and winter,
war and peace, surfeit and hunger."
Jung terms Extraversion the trend of libido recognized
by Freud, which is characterized by an openness — one
might even say vulnerability — of the subject to the object:
thinking, feeling, and acting in relation, willy-nilly, to the
claims or appeal of the object. Introversion, on the other
hand, is the trend recognized by Adler, which is character-
ized by a concentration of interest in the subject: thinking,
feeling, and acting in relation primarily to the interests —
concerns, aims, feelings, and thought processes — of oneself.
Each attitude, however, is susceptible to enantiodromia,
and when that occurs there emerge all the other uncon-
scious contents, contaminating, reinforcing, and bewilder-
ing one another in such a pell-mell of feeling-toned com-
plexes as to put one, literally, "beside oneself."
Jung's concept is that the aim of one's life, psycholog-
ically speaking, should be not to suppress or repress, but
to come to know one's other side, and so both to enjoy
and to control the whole range of one's capacities; i.e., in
the full sense, to "know oneself." And he terms that faculty
of the psyche by which one is rendered capable of this
work of gaining release from the claims of but one or the
xxviii : Editor's Introduction
other of any pair-of-opposites, the Transcendent Function,
which may be thought of as a fifth, at the crossing of the
Sensation
Feeling ^^ Thinking
Intuition
pairs of the other four. The Transcendent Function works
through Symbolization, Mythologization; that is, by re-
leasing names and things from their perceived and con-
ceived associations, it recognizes them and their contexts
as delimited representations to our faculties (Sensation,
Thinking, Feeling, and Intuition) of an undelimited un-
known.
Jung distinguishes symbols from signs. Living symbols
become signs when read as referring to something known;
as, for instance, the cross, to the Church or to a historical
crucifixion. A sign becomes, on the other hand, a symbol
when it is read as pointing to an unknown — the incon-
ceivable "God" beyond the four beams of the cross — to
which Jesus went when he left his body on the beams; or
better, which was already immanent in the body on the
beams; or better still, which is immanent within all bodies
at the crossing points of lines drawn from the four direc-
tions. "Individuation" is Jung's term for the process of
achieving such command of all four functions that, even
while bound to the cross of this limiting earth (Saint Paul's
"body of this death"), one might open one's eyes at the
center, to see, think, feel and intuit transcendence, and
to act out of such knowledge. This, I would say, is the
final good, the Summum Bonum, of all his thought and
work.
Editor's Introduction . xxix
In 1920, the year before the publication of Psychological
Types, Jung visited Tunis and Algiers, where for the first
time he experienced the great world of people living with-
out clocks and watches. Deeply moved, he came to new
realizations there concerning the psyche of the modern
European. And this insight into other worlds was amplified
when, in 1924 and 1925, he met and talked long at Taos
Pueblo, New Mexico, with Indians for whom the sun, the
local mountains, and the local waters still were divine. His
most important voyage, however, was in 1926, to Kenya,
Mount Elgon, and the sources of the Nile, where both
the timeless charm and nobility and the night terrors of
the primitive condition were made known to him directly,
and his return trip down the Nile to Egypt became, as he
described it, a "drama of the birth of light."
The following year one of the leading Sinologists of the
period, Richard Wilhelm, sent Jung the manuscript of a
Chinese Taoist alchemical text entitled The Secret of the
Golden Flower, which dealt with the problem of a cen-
tering amidst opposites; and it was, Jung declares, through
this Chinese text that light on the nature of European as
well as Far Eastern alchemy first came to him. "Grounded
in the natural philosophy of the Middle Ages, alchemy
formed a bridge," he found, "on the one hand into the
past, to Gnosticism, and on the other into the future, to
the modern psychology of the unconscious." Moreover, in
European thought alchemy represented a balancing tradi-
tion to what Jung had always felt to be an excessively
masculine, patriarchal emphasis in the usually accepted
forms of the Jewish and Christian faiths, since in philo-
sophical alchemy the feminine principle plays a no less
important part than the masculine.
Then it came to pass, amid the circle of Jung's now
numerous company of friends, that there was fashioned
for him in those4ast decades of his life a new and very
modern sort of alchemical retort, in the form of a lecture
hall, open to the fair sky, blue waters, and sublime peaks
xxx : Editor's Introduction
of upper Lago Maggiore. Commencing in 1933, constella-
tions of scholars from all over the world were annually
invited to read and discuss, from their various learned
disciplines, papers relevant to the questions of Jungian
thought. These are the annual Eranos Lectures, delivered
on the Ascona estate of the foundress, Frau Olga Froebe-
Kapteyn. Many of the principal papers of Jung's later
years were first presented at those meetings; and even a
passing glance at the names of the scholars contributing
will suffice to make Jung's great point, that "dividing walls
are transparent," and where insight rules beyond differ-
ences, all the pairs-of-opposites come together.
5. Old Age and Retirement (1 946-1 961)
Collected Works:
Volume 9.ii. A ion (1951)
Volume 14. Mysterium Coniunctionis (1955-56)
Late items, also, in Vols. 3, 8, 9.1., 10, and 11
The childhood game of building-blocks had developed
in the middle years of Jung's life into an actual work of
house-building. In Bollingen, at the waterside of Lake
Zurich, he bought in 1922 a piece of land and there began
the unhurried hobby of constructing for himself a castle
of stone, The Tower, which continued to alter in form with
the years; and it was largely to that castle of dream — or
castle-window to eternity — that he repaired when, after
1946, he resigned the last of his teaching posts, at the Uni-
versity of Basel, and turned to the final tasks of his still
developing career.
Already in 1909, but increasingly during his lonely and
(as he knew) dangerous descent into the image-producing
abyss, he had been impressed by the recurrence of certain
stereotypes among the figures of his dream-fantasies, sug-
gesting those with which he was aheady acquainted
Editor's Introduction : xxxi
through his studies of mythology. "I took great care," he
states, "to try to understand every single image, every
item of my psychic inventory, and to classify them scien-
tifically — so far as this was possible — and, above all, to
realize them in actual life." During his sessions with pa-
tients, when they brought dreams to him, day after day,
he again was identifying, classifying, and striving to eval-
uate roles: all of which led, finally, to his recognition of
a cast of inevitable stock characters that have played
through all time, through the dreams and myths of all
mankind, in ever-changing situations, confrontations, and
costumes, yet, for all that, are as predictable in their com-
pany as the characters of a Punch and Judy stage.
These are the figures that he variously terms, "primordial
images" and "archetypes of the unconscious." Like the
Kantian a priori Forms of Sensibility (space and time),
which condition all perception, and Categories of Logic
(quantity, quality, relation, and modality), which precon-
dition all thought, these Jungian "archetypes" are the a
priori Forms of Mythic Fantasy. They "are not determined
as regards their content," he states, "but only as regards
their form, and then only to a very limited degree. A
primordial image is determined as to its content only
when it has become conscious and is therefore filled out
with the material of conscious experience. Its form, how-
ever, . . . might perhaps be compared to the axial system
of a crystal, which, as it were, preforms the crystalline
structure in the mother liquid, although it has no material
existence of its own. This first appears according to the
specific way in which the ions and molecules aggregate.
The archetype in itself is empty and purely formal, nothing
but a facultas praeformandi, a possibility of representation
which is given a priori. The representations themselves are
not inherited, only the forms, and in that respect they
correspond in every way to the instincts, which are also
determined in form only."
Throughout the pages of Jung's long life-work the mani-
xxxii : Editor's Introduction
festations of those archetypes ever appear and reappear;
and in his old age he summarized their roles in the tidy
volume A ion (1951), where he treated also, at some
length, of the Christ image as symbolized in the fish. I
have chosen from that volume, for Selection 6, the chap-
ters introducing four of Jung's company of archetypes; and
have given also, from this period, his speculative essay
"On Synchronicity" (1951), as well as, finally, his wonder-
ful "Answer to Job" (1952) .
After his wife's death in 1955, which smote him hard,
Jung went to work on a new idea for the further building
of his Tower, that is to say, of himself, signifying "an ex-
tension of consciousness achieved in old age." And he
rounded out, as well, his thirty-year study of alchemy in
his final masterwork, Mysterium Coniunctionis, where, as
he states with satisfaction, "my psychology was at last
given its place in reality and established upon its his-
torical foundations. Thus my task was finished, my work
done, and now it can stand."
Jung died, after a brief illness, at his home in Kusnacht,
Zurich, June 6, 1961.
Chronology
Major publications are marked with asterisks. Numbers in brackets
indicate sources of selections in this volume.
/. Boyhood and Student Years (1875-1900)
1875 Born in Kesswil (Thurgau Canton), Switzerland
1879 Family moves to Klein-Hiiningen, near Basel
1 88 1 Schooling commences, in Basel
1884 Birth of sister
1896 Death of father
1898 Investigations of occult phenomena
1900 Decides to become a psychiatrist
2. The Scholar Physician: First Period (1 900-1907)
1900 Appointed Assistant Staff Physician, Burgholzli Mental
Clinic, under Eugen Bleuler
1902 Studies theoretical psychopathology at the Salpetriere,
Paris, under Pierre Janet
Research experiments in word association, at Burg-
holzli
First publications:
* On the Psychology and Pathology of So-Called Oc-
cult Phenomena (CW I )
A Case of Hysterical Stupor in a Prisoner in Deten-
tion (CIV i)
xxx iv : Chronology
1903 Marries Emma Rauschenbach (1882-1955)
On Manic Mood Disorder {CW 1)
On Simulated Insanity {CW 1)
1904 A Medical Opinion on a Case of Simulated Insanity
{CW 1)
On Hysterical Misreading {CW 1)
(With F. Riklin) The Associations of Normal Sub-
jects {CW 2)
1905 Promoted to Senior Staff Physician, Burgholzli
Appointed Lecturer in Psychiatry, University of Zurich.
Cryptomnesia {CW 1)
On the Psychological Diagnosis of Facts {CW 1)
An Analysis of the Associations of an Epileptic
{CW 2)
Reaction-Time in Association Experiments {CW 2)
Experimental Observations on Memory {CW 2)
Psychoanalysis and Association Experiments {CW 2)
J 906 First meeting with Freud, in Vienna
A Third and Final Opinion on Two Contradictory
Diagnoses {CW 1)
On the Determination of Facts by Psychological
Means {CW 2)
Association, Dream, and Hysterical Symptoms {CW
2)
The Significance of Association Experiments for
Psychopathology {CW 2)
* The Psychology of Dementia Praecox' {CW 3)
Freud's Theory of Hysteria: A Reply to A schaff en-
burg {CW 4)
1907 On Disturbances in Reproduction in Association Ex-
periments {CW 2)
On Psychophysical Relations of the Associative Ex-
periment {CW 2)
(With F. Peterson) Psychophysical Investigations
with the Galvanometer and Pneumograph in Normal
and Insane Individuals {CW 2)
3. The Scholar Physician: Second Period {1908-1912)
1908 Attends First International Congress of Psycho-Anal-
ysis, Vienna
Chronology : xxxv
(With C. Ricksher) Further Investigations on the
Galvanic Phenomenon and Respiration in Normal
and Insane Individuals (CW 2)
The Content of Psychoses {CW 3)
The Freudian Theory of Hysteria (CW 4)
1909 Beginning of intense studies in mythology
Private practice flourishing; Resigns from Burgholzli
post
Journey with Freud to U.S.A.; receives honorary de
gree, Clark University
The Significance of the Father in the Destiny of the
Individual (CW 4)
The Analysis of Dreams (CW 4)
1910 Attends Second International Congress of Psycho-Anal-
ysis, Nuremberg; appointed Permanent President
The Association Method (CW 2)
A Contribution to the Psychology of Rumour (CW 4)
On the Criticism of Psychoanalysis (CW 4)
Psychic Conflicts in a Child (CW 17)
191 1 A Criticism of Bidder's Theory of Schizophrenic
Negativism (CW 3)
On the Significance of Number Dreams (CW 4)
Morton Prince, ''Mechanism and Interpretation of
Dreams: A Critical Review" (CW 4)
* Symbols of Transformation, Part I (CW 5)
1912 Dreams are summoning him to an inward awakening
Concerning Psychoanalysis (CW 4)
* Symbols of Transformation, Part II (CW 5)
New Paths in Psychology (CW 7)
4. The Scholar Physician: Master Period (1913-1946)
19 1 3 Break with Freud and Psychoanalytic School
Resigns Professorship, University of Zurich
Intense prcoccupalion with images of the unconscious
The Theory of Psychoanalysis (CW 4)
General Aspects of Psychoanalysis (CW 4)
1 9 14 Resigns Presidency of International Congress of Psycho-
Analysis
Outbreak of World War I
xxxv i : Chronology
The Importance of the Unconscious in Psycho-
pathology (CW 3)
On Psychological Understanding (CW 3)
Some Crucial Points in Psychoanalysis: Jung-Loy
Correspondence (CW 4)
1 9 15 Pursues mythological and dream studies
19 16 Psychoanalysis and Neurosis (CW 4)
Preface to "Collected Papers on Analytical Psychol-
ogy" (CW 4)
The Structure of the Unconscious (CW 7)
[9] The Transcendent Function (CW 8)
General Aspects of Dream Psychology (CW 8)
1917 Second Preface to "Collected Papers on Analytical
Psychology" (CW 4)
* On the Psychology of the Unconscious (Part I of
Two Essays on Analytical Psychology: CW 7)
1918 Recognition of the self as goal of psychic development
The Role of the Unconscious (CW 10)
1919 End of World War I
[3] Instinct and the Unconscious (CW 8)
1920 Voyage to Algiers and Tunis
The Psychological Foundations of Belief in Spirits
(CW 8)
192 1 [8] * Psychological Types (CW 6)
The Therapeutic Value of Ahreaction (CW 16)
1922 Purchase of Bollingen property
fio] On the Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry
(CW 15)
1923 Death of mother. Work begun on Bollingen Tower
1,924 Visit to Taos Pueblo, New Mexico
1925 Visit to Wembley Exhibition, London
In Zurich: first seminar conducted in English
Safari to Kenya, Mount Elgon, and Nile (1925-1926)
[7] Marriage as a Psychological Relationship (CW 17)
1926 Return from Africa, via Egypt
Spirit and Life (CW 8)
Analytical Psychology and Education: Three Lectures
(CW 17)
1927 Mandala studies developing
[2] The Structure of the Psyche (CW 8)
Mind and Earth (CW 10)
Chronology : xxxvii
Woman in Europe (CW 10)
Introduction to W tikes' s "Analyse der Kinderseele"
(CW 17)
1928 Collaboration with Wilhelm on Chinese text; illumina-
tions concerning alchemy and mandala symbolism
[5] The Relations between the Ego and the Unconscious
(Part II of Two Essays on Analytical Psychology:
CW 7)
On Psychic Energy (CW 8)
Analytical Psychology and Weltanschauung (CW 8)
[12] The Spiritual Problem of Modern Man (CW 10)
The Love Problem of a Student (CW 10)
The Swiss Line in the European Spectrum (CW 10)
Psychoanalysis and the Cure of Souls (CW 11)
Child Development and Education (CW 17)
The Significance of the Unconscious in Individual
Education (CW 17)
1929 Freud and Jung: Contrasts (CW 4)
The Significance of Constitution and Heredity in Psy-
chology (CW 8)
* Commentary on "The Secret of the Golden Flower"
(CW 13)
Paracelsus (CW 15)
Problems of Modern Psychotherapy (CW 16)
1930 Becomes Vice-President, General Medical Society for
Psychotherapy
Introduction to Kranefeldt's "Secret Ways of the
Mind" (CW 4)
[1] The Stages of Life (CW 8)
Review of Keyserling's "America Set Free" (CW 10)
Complications of American Psychology (CW 10)
Psychology and Literature (CW 15)
Some Aspects of Modern Psychotherapy (CW 16)
1931 Basic Postulates of Analytical Psychology (CW 8)
Archaic Man (CW 10)
The Aims of Psychotherapy (CW 16)
1932 Awarded Literary Prize, city of Zurich
Psychotherapists or the Clergy (CW 11)
Sigmund Freud in His Historical Setting (CW 15)
"Ulysses" (CW 15)
Picasso (CW 15)
xxxviii : Chronology
1933 Commences lecturing at Eidgenossische Technische
Hochschule, Zurich
Becomes President, General Medical Society for Psy-
chotherapy: Editorial, on becoming President, in Zen-
tralblatt fur Psychotherapie und Hire Grenzgebiete
(Leipzig) VI: 3 (December 1933) (CW 10)
First Eranos Meeting, Ascona, Switzerland. Jung's pa-
per:
* A Study in the Process of Individuation (CW 9.1)
The Real and the Surreal (CW 8)
The Meaning of Psychology for Modern Man (CW
10)
Brother Klaus (CW 11)
1934 Founds and becomes first President of International
General Medical Society for Psychotherapy
Second Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper:
* Archetypes of the Collective Unconscious (CW 9-i)
A Review of the Complex Theory (CW 8)
The Soul and Death (CW 8)
The State of Psychotherapy Today (CW 10)
Review of Keyserling's "La Revolution Mondiale"
(CW 10)
A Rejoinder to Dr. Bally (CW 10)
Circular Letter on the Founding of the International
General Medical Society for Psychotherapy (CW
10)
The Practical Use of Dream Analysis (CW 16)
The Development of the Personality (CW 17)
1935 Third Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper:
* Dream Symbols of the Individuation Process (re-
vised as Individual Dream Symbolism in Relation to
Alchemy, 1936: CW 12)
Editorial in Zentralblatt VIII: 1; Editorial Note, ibid.
VII: 2 (both in CW 10)
Presidential Address, 8th General Medical Congress
for Psychotherapy, Bad Nauheim (CW 10)
Contribution to a Discussion of Psychotherapy (CW
10)
Psychological Commentary on u The Tibetan Book
of the Dead" (CW 11)
Principles of Practical Psychotherapy (CW 16)
Chronology : xxxix
What Is Psychotherapy (CW 1 6)
Analytical Psychology: Its Theory and Practice (The
Tavistock Lectures, London. Published New York:
Pantheon Books; London: Routledge & Kegan Paul,
1968)
1936 Received honorary doctorate, Harvard University
Fourth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper:
* Religious Ideas in Alchemy (published as Part III
of Psychology and Alchemy: CIV 12)
[4] The Concept of the Collective Unconscious (CW 9-i)
Concerning the Archetypes, with Special Reference
to the Anima Concept (CW 9.1)
Wot an (CW 10)
Yoga and the West (CW n)
[11] * Individual Dream Symbolism in Relation to Al-
chemy (CW 12)
1937 Fifth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper:
The Visions of Zosimus (CW 13)
Seminars and lectures in U.S.A.
Psychological Factors Determining Human Behavior
(CW 8)
Presidential Address: 9th International Medical Con-
gress for Psychotherapy, Copenhagen (CW 10)
The Realities of Practical Psychotherapy (CW 16)
1938 Receives honorary doctorate, Oxford; becomes mem-
ber, Royal Society of Medicine
Journey to India on invitation of British Government
of India for 25th Anniversary of University of Calcutta
Sixth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper:
Psychological Aspects of the Mother Archetype (CW
9-i)
Presidential Address: 10th International Medical
Congress for Psychotherapy, Oxford, 1938 (CW 10)
Psychology and Religion (The Terry Lectures, Yale
University: CW 11)
1939 Outbreak of World War II
Appointed Editor, Zentralblatt fur Psychotherapie und
Hire Grenzgebiete
Seventh Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper:
Concerning Rebirth (CW 9.i)
Conscious, Unconscious, and Individuation (CW 9.i)
xl : Chronology
The Dreamlike World of India (CW 10)
What Can India Teach Us? (CW 10)
[13] Psychological Commentary to "The Tibetan Book of
the Great Liberation" (CW 11)
Foreword to Suzuki's "Introduction to Zen Bud-
dhism" (CW 11)
In Memory of Sigmund Freud (CW 15)
Richard Wilhelm: In Memoriam (CW 15)
1940 Eighth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper:
A Psychological Approach to the Idea of the Trinity
(CW 11)
The Psychology of the Child Archetype (CW 9.1)
194 1 Ninth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper:
Transformation Symbol in the Mass (CW 11)
The Psychological Aspects of Kore (CW 9.i)
Paracelsus the Physician (CW 15)
1942 Resigns post at Eidgenossische Technische Hochschule
(1933-1942)
Tenth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper:
The Spirit Mercurius (CW 13)
Paracelsus as a Spiritual Phenomenon (CW 13)
1943 Becomes honorary member, Swiss Academy of Sciences
Eleventh Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung absent, illness
The Psychology of Eastern Meditation (CW 11)
Psychotherapy and a Philosophy of Life (CW 16)
The Gifted Child (CW 17)
1944 Occupies Chair in Medical Psychology, founded for
him at University of Basel; illness forces resignation
the following year
Suffers broken foot; heart attack; had new series of
visions
Twelfth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung absent, illness
The Holy Men of India: Introduction to Heinrich
Zimmer's "Der Weg zum Selbst" (CW 11). Jung
editor of this posthumous work
* Psychology and Alchemy (CW 12). Based on two
papers delivered at Eranos Meetings, 1935, 1936.
1945 Received honorary doctorate, University of Geneva
(honoring seventieth birthday)
Thirteenth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper:
Chronology : xli
The Phenomenology of the Spirit in Fairytales (CW
9.0
On the Nature of Dreams (CW 8)
After the Catastrophe {CW 10)
The Philosophical Tree {CW 13)
Medicine and Psychotherapy {CW 16)
Psychology Today {CW 16)
1946 Fourteenth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper:
The Spirit of Psychology (published, enlarged, under
new title: On the Nature of the Psyche: CW 8)
Preface and Epilogue to "Essays on Contemporary
Events" {CW 10)
The Fight with the Shadow {CW 10)
* The Psychology of the Transference {CW 16)
5. Retirement and Old Age {1947-196 1)
1947 Retirement to Bollingen Tower
Fifteenth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung absent
1948 Sixteenth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung's paper:
On the Self (later incorporated as Chap. IV, CW 9.ii)
Reworking of many earlier papers
1949 Seventeenth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung absent
1950 Eighteenth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. Jung absent
Reworking of earlier papers
Concerning Mandala Symbolism {CW 9.i)
Foreword to '7 Ching" {CW 11)
195 1 Nineteenth Eranos Meeting, Ascona. 1 Jung's paper:
[14] On Synchronicity {CW 8)
[6] * A ion: Researches into the Phenomenology of the
Self {CW 9.ii)
Prefatory Note to English Edition of Psychology and
Alchemy {CW 12)
Fundamental Questions of Psychotherapy (CW 16)
1952 Synchronicity: An Acausal Connecting Principle
(CW 8)
1 Eranos Meetings have continued to the present. Jung's participation
ceased in 1951.
xlii : Chronology
Foreword to White's "God and the Unconscious"
(CW II)
Foreword to Werblowsky's "Lucifer and Prometheus'*
(CW II)
[15] * Answer to Job (CW 11)
1953 Foreword to John Weir Perry's "The Self in Psychotic
Process. Its Symbol 'nation in Schizophrenia" (Berke-
ley and Los Angeles: University of California Press;
London: Cambridge University Press)
1954 Reworking of earlier papers
On the Psychology of the Trickster Figure (CW 9.1)
1955 Death of Emma Rauschenbach Jung
Receives honorary doctorate, Eidgenossische Technische
Hochschule, Zurich (honoring eightieth birthday)
Culmination and conclusion of alchemical studies
Mandalas (CW 9.1)
* Mysterium Coniunctionis (CW 14)
1956 Why and How I Wrote My "Answer to Job" (CW
11)
1957 Conversation with John M. Billinsky, quoted above, pp.
xvi-xvii
The Undiscovered Self (Present and Future) (CW
10)
1958 Work on autobiographical Memories, Dreams, Reflec-
tions
Flying Saucers: A Modern Myth (CW 10)
A Psychological View of Conscience (CW 10)
1959 Good and Evil in Analytical Psychology (CW 10)
Introduction to Wolff's "Studies in Jungian Psychol-
ogy (CW 10)
i960 Foreword to Miguel Serrano's "The Visits of the
Queen of Sheba" (Bombay and London: Asia Publish-
ing House)
1 96 1 Death, after brief illness, June 6, at his home in
Kusnacht, Zurich
Part I M
M2M
The Stages of Life 1
To discuss the problems connected with the stages of hu-
man development is an exacting task, for it means nothing
less than unfolding a picture of psychic life in its entirety
from the cradle to the grave. Within the framework of a
lecture such a task can be carried out only on the broadest
lines, and it must be well understood that no attempt will
be made to describe the normal psychic occurrences within
the various stages. We shall restrict ourselves, rather, to
certain "problems," that is, to things that are difficult,
questionable, or ambiguous; in a word, to questions which
allow of more than one answer — and, moreover, answers
that are always open to doubt. For this reason there will
be much to which we must add a question-mark in our
thoughts. Worse still, there will be some things we must
accept on faith, while now and then we must even indulge
in speculations.
1 From The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyclie. Collected
Works, Vol. 8, pars. 749-795. [Originally published as "Die
seelischcn Problcmc der mcnschlichen Allerstufen," t\'eue Ziircher
Zeitung, March 14 and 16, 1930. Revised and largely rewritten,
it was republished as "Die Lebcnswcnde," Seelenprobleme der
(Jet>em\ai[ (Psychologischc Abrumdlunger, III; Zurich. 1931), which
version was translated by \V. S. Dell and Cary F. Bavnes as 'The
Stages of Life," Modern Man in Search of a Soul (i.o\u\o\\ and
New York, 1933). The present translation by R. F. C. Hull is based
on this. — Edmors of The Collected Works.]
4 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
If psychic life consisted only of self-evident matters of
fact — which on a primitive level is still the case — we could
content ourselves with a sturdy empiricism. The psychic
life of civilized man, however, is full of problems; we can-
not even think of it except in terms of problems. Our
psychic processes are made up to a large extent of reflec-
tions, doubts, experiments, all of which are almost com-
pletely foreign to the unconscious, instinctive mind of
primitive man. It is the growth of consciousness which we
must thank for the existence of problems; they are the
Danaan gift of civilization. It is just mans turning away
from instinct — his opposing himself to instinct — that cre-
ates consciousness. Instinct is nature and seeks to per-
petuate nature, whereas consciousness can only seek cul-
ture or its denial. Even when we turn back to nature, in-
spired by a Rousseauesque longing, we "cultivate" nature.
As long as we are still submerged in nature we are un-
conscious, and we live in the security of instinct which
knows no problems. Everything in us that still belongs to
nature shrinks away from a problem, for its name is doubt,
and wherever doubt holds sway there, is uncertainty and
the possibility of divergent ways. And where several ways
seem possible, there we have turned away from the certain
guidance of instinct and are handed over to fear. For con-
sciousness is now called upon to do that which nature has
always done for her children — namely, to give a certain,
unquestionable, and unequivocal decision. And here we
are beset by an all-too-human fear that consciousness —
our Promethean conquest — may in the end not be able to
serve us as well as nature.
Problems thus draw us into an orphaned and isolated
state where we are abandoned by nature and are driven to
consciousness. There is no other way open to us; we are
forced to resort to conscious decisions and solutions where
formerly we trusted ourselves to natural happenings. Every
problem, therefore, brings the possibility of a widening of
consciousness, but also the necessity of saying goodbye to
The Stages of Life : 5
cnildlike unconsciousness and trust in nature. This neces-
sity is a psychic fact of such importance that it constitutes
one of the most essential symbolic teachings of the Chris-
tian religion. It is the sacrifice of the merely natural man,
of the unconscious, ingenuous being whose tragic career
beg; n with the eating of the apple in Paradise. The biblical
fall of man presents the dawn of consciousness as a curse.
And as a matter of fact it is in this light that we first look
upon every problem that forces us to greater consciousness
and separates us even further from the paradise of un-
conscious childhood. Every one of us gladly turns away
from his problems; if possible, they must not be mentioned,
or, better still, their existence is denied. We wish to make
our lives simple, certain, and smooth, and for that reason
problems are taboo. We want to have certainties and no
doubts — results and no experiments — without even seeing
that certainties can arise only through doubt and results
only through experiment. The artful denial of a problem
will not produce conviction; on the contrary, a wider and
higher consciousness is required to give us the certainty
and clarity we need.
This introduction, long as it is, seemed to me necessary
in order to make clear the nature of our subject. When we
must deal with problems, we instinctively resist trying the
way that leads through obscurity and darkness. We wish
to hear only of unequivocal results, and completely forget
that these results can only be brought about when we have
ventured into and emerged again from the darkness. But
to penetrate the darkness we must summon all the powers
of enlightenment that consciousness can offer; as I have
already said, we must even indulge in speculations. For
in treating the problems of psychic life we perpetually
stumble upon questions of principle belonging to the pri-
vate domains of the most heterogeneous branches of
knowledge. We disturb and anger the theologian no less
than the philosopher, the physician no less than the educa-
tor; we even grope about in the field of the biologist and
6 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
of the historian. This extravagant behaviour is due not to
arrogance but to the circumstance that man's psyche is a
unique combination of factors which are at the same time
the special subjects of far-reaching lines of research. For
it is out of himself and out of his peculiar constitution
that man has produced his sciences. They are symptoms
of his psyche.
If, therefore, we ask ourselves the unavoidable question,
"Why does man, in obvious contrast to the animal world,
have problems at all?" we run into that inextricable tangle
of thoughts which many thousands of incisive minds have
woven in the course of the centuries. I shall not perform
the labours of a Sisyphus upon this masterpiece of con-
fusion, but will try to present quite simply my contribution
toward man's attempt to answer this basic question.
There are no problems without consciousness. We must
therefore put the question in another v/ay and ask, "How
does consciousness arise in the first place?" Nobody can
say with certainty; but we can observe small children in
the process of becoming conscious. Every parent can see it
if he pays attention. And what we see is this: when the
child recognizes someone or something — when he "knows"
a person or a thing — then we feel that the child has con-
sciousness, That, no doubt, is also why in Paradise it was
the tree of knowledge which bore such fateful fruit.
But what is recognition or "knowledge" in this sense?
We speak of "knowing" something when we succeed in
linking a new perception to an already existing context, in
such a way that we hold in consciousness not only the
perception but parts of this context as well. "Knowing" is
based, therefore, upon the perceived connection between
psychic contents. We can have no knowledge of a content
that is not connected with anything, and we cannot even
be conscious of it should our consciousness still be on this
low initial level. Accordingly the first stage of conscious-
ness which we can observe consists in the mere connection
between two or more psychic contents. At this level, con-
The Stages of Life : 7
sciousness is merely sporadic, being limited to the percep-
tion of a few connections, and the content is not remem-
bered later on. It is a fact that in the early years of life
there is no continuous memory; at most there are islands
of consciousness which are like single lamps or lighted
objects in the far-flung darkness. But these islands of mem-
ory are not the same as those earliest connections which
are merely perceived; they contain a new, very important
series of contents belonging to the perceiving subject him-
self, the so-called ego. This series, like the initial series of
contents, is at first merely perceived, and for this reason
the child logically begins by speaking of itself objectively,
in the third person. Only later, when the ego-contents —
the so-called ego-complex — have acquired an energy of
their own (very likely as a result of training and practice)
does the feeling of subjectivity or 'T-ness" arise. This may
well be the moment when the child begins to speak of it-
self in the first person. The continuity of memory prob-
ably begins at this stage. Essentially, therefore, it would
be a continuity of ego-memories.
In the childish stage of consciousness there are as yet no
problems; nothing depends upon the subject, for the child
itself is still wholly dependent on its parents. It is as
though it were not yet completely born, but were still en-
closed in the psychic atmosphere of its parents. Psychic
birth, and with it the conscious differentiation from the
parents, normally takes place only at puberty, with the
eruption of sexuality. The physiological change is attended
by a psychic revolution. For the various bodily manifesta-
tions give such an emphasis to the ego that it often asserts
itself without stint or moderation. This is sometimes called
"the unbearable age."
Until this period is reached the psychic life of the in-
dividual is governed largely by instinct, and few or no
problems arise. Even when external limitations oppose his
subjective impulses, these restraints do not put the individ-
ual at variance with himself. He submits to them or cir-
8 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
cumvcnts them, remaining quite at one with himself. He
does not yet know the state of inner tension induced by
a problem. This state only arises when what was an ex-
ternal limitation becomes an inner one; when one impulse
is opposed by another. In psychological language we would
say: the problematical state, the inner division with one-
self, arises when, side by side with the series of ego-con-
tents, a second series of equal intensity comes into being.
This second series, because of its energy value, has a func-
tional significance equal to that of the ego-complex; we
might call it another, second ego which can on occasion
even wrest the leadership from the first. This produces the
division with oneself, the state that betokens a problem.
To recapitulate what wc have said: the first stage of
consciousness, consisting in merely recognizing or "know-
ing/' is an anarchic or chaotic state. The second, that of
the developed ego-complex, is monarchic or monistic. The
third brings another step forward in consciousness, and
consists in an awareness of the divided, or dualistic, state.
And here we come to our real theme — the problem of
the stages of life. First of all we must deal with the period
of youth. It extends roughly from the years just after pu-
berty to middle life, which itself begins between the thirty-
fifth and fortieth year.
1 might well be asked why I begin with the second stage,
as though there were no problems connected with child-
hood. The complex psychic life of the child is, of course,
a problem of the first magnitude to parents, educators, and
doctors, but when normal the child has no real problems of
its own. It is only the adult human being who can have
doubts about himself and be at variance with himself.
Wc are all familiar with the sources of the problems
that arise in the period of youth. For most people it is the
demands of life which harshly put an end to the dream of
childhood. If the individual is sufficiently well prepared,
the transition to a profession or career can take place
smoothly. But if he clings to illusions that are contrary to
The Stages of Life : 9
reality, then problems will surely arise. No one can take
the step into life without making certain assumptions, and
occasionally these assumptions are false — that is, they do
not fit the conditions into which one is thrown. Often it
is a question of exaggerated expectations, underestimation
of difficulties, unjustified optimism, or a negative attitude.
One could compile quite a list of the false assumptions
that give rise to the first conscious problems.
But it is not always the contradiction between subjective
assumptions and external facts that gives rise to problems;
it may just as often be inner, psychic difficulties. They
may exist even when things run smoothly in the outside
world. Very often it is the disturbance of psychic equilib-
rium caused by the sexual instinct; equally often it is the
feeling of inferiority which springs from an unbearable
sensitivity. These inner conflicts may exist even when
adaptation to the outer world has been achieved without
apparent effort. It even seems as if young people who have
had a hard struggle for existence are spared inner problems,
while those who for some reason or other have no difficulty
with adaptation run into problems of sex or conflicts arising
from a sense of inferiority.
People whose own temperaments offer problems are often
neurotic, but it would be a serious misunderstanding to
confuse the existence of problems with neurosis. There is
a marked difference between the two in that the neurotic
is ill because he is unconscious of his problems, while the
person with a difficult temperament suffers from his con-
scious problems without being ill.
If we try to extract the common and essential factors
from the almost inexhaustible variety of individual prob-
lems found in the period of youth, we meet in all cases
with one particular feature: a more or less patent clinging
to the childhood level of consciousness, a resistance to the
fateful forces in and around us which would involve us in
the world. Something in us wishes to remain a child, to be
unconscious or, at most, conscious only of the ego; to
to : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
reject everything strange, or else subject it to our will; to
do nothing, or else indulge our own craving for pleasure
or power. In all this there is something of the inertia of
matter; it is a persistence in the previous state whose range
of consciousness is smaller, narrower, and more egoistic
than that of the dualistic phase. For here the individual is
faced with the necessity of recognizing and accepting what
is different and strange as a part of his own life, as a kind
of "also-I."
The essential feature of the dualistic phase is the widen-
ing of the horizon of life, and it is this that is so vigorously
resisted. To be sure, this expansion — or diastole, as Goethe
called it — had started long before this. It begins at birth,
when the child abandons the narrow confinement of the
mother's body; and from then on it steadily increases until
it reaches a climax in the problematical state, when the
individual begins to struggle against it.
What would happen to him if he simply changed him-
self into that foreign-seeming "also-I" and allowed the
earlier c^o to vanish into the past? We might suppose this
to be a quite practical course. The very aim of religious
education, from the exhortation to put off the old Adam
right back to the rebirth rituals of primitive races, is to
transform the human being into the new, future man, and
to allow the old to die away.
Psychology teaches us that, in a certain sense, there is
nothing in the psyche that is old; nothing that can really,
finally die away. Even Paul was left with a thorn in the
flesh. Whoever protects himself against what is new and
strange and regresses to the past falls into the same neurotic
condition as the man who identifies himself with the new
and runs away from the past. The only difference is that
the one has estranged himself from the past and the other
from the future. In principle both are doing the same thing;
they are reinforcing their narrow range of consciousness
instead of shattering it in the tension of opposites and
building up a state of wider and higher consciousness.
The Stages of Life : u
This outcome would be ideal if it could be brought about
in the second stage of life — but there's the rub. For one
thing, nature cares nothing whatsoever about a higher level
of consciousness; quite the contrary. And then society
does not value these feats of the psyche very highly; its
prizes are always given for achievement and not for per-
sonality, the latter being rewarded for the most part post-
humously. These facts compel us towards a particular
solution: we are forced to limit ourselves to the attainable,
and to differentiate particular aptitudes in which the so-
cially effective individual discovers his true self.
Achievement, usefulness and so forth are the ideals that
seem to point the way out of the confusions of the problem-
atical state. They are the lodestars that guide us in the
adventure of broadening and consolidating our physical
existence; they help us to strike our roots in the world,
but they cannot guide us in the development of that wider
consciousness to which we give the name of culture. In
the period of youth, however, this course is the normal one
and in all circumstances preferable to merely tossing about
in a welter of problems.
The dilemma is often solved, therefore, in this way:
whatever is given to us by the past is adapted to the possi-
bilities and demands of the future. We limit ourselves to
the attainable, and this means renouncing all our other
psychic potentialities. One man loses a valuable piece of
his past, another a valuable piece of his future. Everyone
can call to mind friends or schoolmates who were promis-
ing and idealistic youngsters, but who, when we meet them
again years later, seem to have grown dry and cramped in
a narrow mould. These are examples of the solution men-
tioned above.
The serious problems in life, however, are never fully
solved. If ever they should appear to be so it is a sure
sign that something has been lost. The meaning and pur-
pose of a problem seem to lie not in its solution but in our
working at it incessantly. This alone preserves us from
12 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
stultification and petrifaction. So also the solution 'of the
problems of youth by restricting ourselves to the attainable
is only temporarily valid and not lasting in a deeper sense.
Of course, to win for oneself a place in society and to
transform one's nature so that it is more or less fitted to
this kind of existence is in all cases a considerable achieve-
ment. It is a fight waged within oneself as well as outside,
comparable to the struggle of the child for an ego. That
struggle is for the most part unobserved because it happens
in the dark; but when we see how stubbornly childish
illusions and assumptions and egoistic habits are still clung
to in later years we can gain some idea of the energies that
were needed to form them. And so it is with the ideals,
convictions, guiding ideas and attitudes which in the period
of youth lead us out into life, for which we struggle, suffer,
and win victories: they grow together with our own being,
we apparently change into them, we seek to perpetuate
them indefinitely and as a matter of course, just as the
young person asserts his ego in spite of the world and
often in spite of himself.
The nearer we approach to the middle of life, and the
better we have succeeded in entrenching ourselves in our
personal attitudes and social positions, the more it appears
as if we had discovered the right course and the right
ideals and principles of behaviour. For this reason we
suppose them to be eternally valid, and make a virtue of
unchangeably clinging to them. We overlook the essential
fact that the social goal is attained only at the cost of a
diminution of personality. Many — far too many — aspects
of life which should also have been experienced lie in the
lumber-room among dusty memories; but sometimes, too,
they are glowing coals under grey ashes.
Statistics show a rise in the frequency of mental depres-
sions in men about forty. In women the neurotic difficulties
generally begin somewhat earlier. We see that in this phase
of life — between thirty-five and forty — an important change
in the human psyche is in preparation. At first it is not a
The Stages of Life : 13
conscious and striking change; it is rather a matter of
indirect signs of a change which seems to take its rise in
the unconscious. Often it is something like a slow change
in a person's character; in another case certain traits may
come to light which had disappeared since childhood;
or again, one's previous inclinations and interests begin
to weaken and others take their place. Conversely — and
this happens very frequently — one's cherished convictions
and principles, especially the moral ones, begin to harden
and to grow increasingly rigid until, somewhere around
the age of fifty, a period of intolerance and fanaticism is
reached. It is as if the existence of these principles were
endangered and it were therefore necessary to emphasize
them all the more.
The wine of youth does not always clear with advancing
years; sometimes it grows turbid. All the phenomena men-
tioned above can best be seen in rather one-sided people,
turning up sometimes sooner and sometimes later. Their
appearance, it seems to me, is often delayed by the fact
that the parents of the person in question are still alive.
It is then as if the period of youth were being unduly
drawn out. I have seen this especially in the case of men
whose fathers were long-lived. The death of the father then
has the effect of a precipitate and almost catastrophic
ripening.
I know of a pious man who was a churchwarden and
who, from the age of forty onward, showed a growing and
finally unbearable intolerance in matters of morality and re-
ligion. At the same time his moods grew visibly worse.
At last he was nothing more than a darkly lowering pillar
of the Church. In this way he got along until the age of
fifty-five, when suddenly, sitting up in bed in the middle
of the night, he said to his wife: 4i Now at last I've got it!
I'm just a plain rascal." Nor did this realization remain
without results. He spent his declining years in riotous
living and squandered a goodly part of his fortune. Ob-
viously quite a likable fellow, capable of both extremes!
14 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
The very frequent neurotic disturbances of adult years
all have one thing in common: they want to carry the
psychology of the youthful phase over the threshold of
the so-called years of discretion. Who does not know those
touching old gentlemen who must always warm up the dish
of their student days, who can fan the flame of life only
by reminiscences of their heroic youth, but who, for the
rest, are stuck in a hopelessly wooden Philistinism? As a
rule, to be sure, they have this one merit which it would
be wrong to undervalue: they are not neurotic, but only
boring and stereotyped. The neurotic is rather a person
who can never have things as he would like them in the
present, and who can therefore never enjoy the past either.
As formerly the neurotic could not escape from child-
hood, so now he cannot part with his youth. He shrinks
from the grey thoughts of approaching age, and, feeling
the prospect before him unbearable, is always straining
to look behind him. Just as the childish person shrinks
back from the unknown in the world and in human exist-
ence, so the grown man shrinks back from the second
half of life. It is as if unknown and dangerous tasks awaited
him, or as if he were threatened with sacrifices and losses
which he does not wish to accept, or as if his life up to
now seemed to him so fair and precious that he could not
relinquish it.
Is it perhaps at bottom the fear of death? That does
not seem to me very probable, because as a rule death is
still far in the distance and therefore somewhat abstract.
Experience shows us, rather, that the basic cause of all the
difficulties of this transition is to be found in a deep-seated
and peculiar change within the psyche. In order to char-
acterize it I must take for comparison the daily course of
the sun— but a sun that is endowed with human feeling
and man's limited consciousness. In the morning it rises
from the nocturnal sea of unconsciousness and looks upon
the wide, bright world which lies before it in an expanse
that steadily widens the higher it climbs in the firmament. In
The Stages of Life : L5
this extension of its field of action caused by its own
rising, the sun will discover its significance; it will see the
attainment of the greatest possible height, and the widest
possible dissemination of its blessings, as its goal. In this
conviction the sun pursues its course to the unforeseen
zenith — unforeseen, because its career is unique and in-
dividual, and the culminating point could not be calculated
in advance. At the stroke of noon the descent begins. And
the descent means the reversal of all the ideals and values
that were cherished in the morning. The sun falls into
contradiction with itself. It is as though it should draw in
its rays instead of emitting them. Light and warmth decline
and are at last extinguished.
All comparisons are lame, but this simile is at least not
lamer than others. A French aphorism sums it up with
cynical resignation: Si jeunesse savait, si vieillesse pouvait.
Fortunately we are not rising and setting suns, for then
it would fare badly with our cultural values. But there is
something sunlike within us, and to speak of the morning
and spring, of the evening and autumn of life is not mere
sentimental jargon. We thus give expression to psychologi-
cal truths and, even more, to physiological facts, for the
reversal of the sun at noon changes even bodily character-
istics. Especially among southern races one can observe
that older women develop deep, rough voices, incipient
moustaches, rather hard features and other masculine
traits. On the other hand the masculine physique is toned
down by feminine features, such as adiposity and softer
facial expressions.
There is an interesting report in the ethnological litera-
ture about an Indian warrior chief to whom in middle life
the Great Spirit appeared in a dream. The spirit announced
to him that from then on he must sit among the women
and children, wear women's clothes, and eat the food of
women. He obeyed the dream without suffering a loss of
prestige. This vision is a true expression of the psychic
revolution of life's noon, of the beginning of life's de-
j 6 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
cline. Man's values, and even his body, do tend to change
into their opposites.
We might compare masculinity and femininity and their
psychic components to a definite store of substances of
which, in the first half of life, unequal use is made. A man
consumes his large supply of masculine substance and has
left over only the smaller amount of feminine substance,
which must now be put to use. Conversely, the woman
allows her hitherto unused supply of masculinity to be-
come active.
This change is even more noticeable in the psychic realm
than in the physical. How often it happens that a man of
forty-five or fifty winds up his business, and the wife then
dons the trousers and opens a little shop where he perhaps
performs the duties of a handyman. There are many women
who only awaken to social responsibility and to social
consciousness after their fortieth year. In modern business
life, especially in America, nervous breakdowns in the
forties are a very common occurrence. If one examines
the victims one finds that what has broken down is the
masculine style of life which held the field up to now,
and that what is left over is an effeminate man. Con-
trariwise, one can observe women in these selfsame busi-
ness spheres who have developed in the second half of
life an uncommonly masculine tough-mindedness which
thrusts the feelings and the heart aside. Very often these
changes are accompanied by all sorts of catastrophes in
marriage, for it is not hard to imagine what will happen
vshen the husband discovers his tender feelings and the wife
her sharpness of mind.
The worst o( it all is that intelligent and cultivated peo-
ple live their lives without even knowing of the possibility
of such transformations. Wholly unprepared, they embark
upon the second half of life. Or are there perhaps colleges
for forty-year-olds which prepare them for their coming
life and its demands as the ordinary colleges introduce
our young people to a knowledge of the world? No, thor-
The Stages of Life : 17
oughly unprepared we take the step into the afternoon of
life; worse still, we take this step with the false assumption
that our truths and ideals will serve us as hitherto. But we
cannot live the afternoon of life according to the pro-
gramme of life's morning; for what was great in the
morning will be little at evening, and what in the morning
was true will at evening have become a lie. I have given
psychological treatment to too many people of advancing
years, and have looked too often into the secret chambers
of their souls, not to be moved by this fundamental truth.
Ageing people should know that their lives are not
mounting and expanding, but that an inexorable inner
process enforces the contraction of life. For a young per-
son it is almost a sin, or at least a danger, to be too
preoccupied with himself; but for the ageing person it is
a duty and a necessity to devote serious attention to him-
self. After having lavished its light upon the world, the
sun withdraws its rays in order to illuminate its?lf. Instead
of doing likewise, many old people prefer to be hypochon-
driacs, niggards, pedants, applauders of the past or else
eternal adolescents — all lamentable substitutes for the
illumination of the self, but inevitable consequences of the
delusion that the second half of life must be governed by
the principles of the first.
I said just now that we have no schools for forty-year-
olds. That is not quite true. Our religions were always
such schools in the past, but how many people regard
them as such today? How many of us older ones have been
brought up in such a school and really prepared for the
second half of life, for old age, death and eternity?
A human being would certainly not grow to be seventy
or eighty years old if this longevity had no meaning for
the species. The afternoon of human life must also have
a significance of its own and cannot be merely a pitiful
appendage to life's morning. The significance of the morn-
ing undoubtedly lies in the development of the individual,
our entrenchment in the outer world, the propagation of
iS : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
our kind, and the care of our children. This is the obvious
purpose of nature. But when this purpose has been attained
— and more than attained — shall the earning of money,
the extension of conquests, and the expansion of life go
steadily on beyond the bounds of all reason and sense?
Whoever carries over into the afternoon the law of the
morning, or the natural aim, must pay for it with damage
to his soul, just as surely as a growing youth who tries
to carry over his childish egoism into adult life must pay
for this mistake with social failure. Money-making, social
achievement, family and posterity are nothing but plain
nature, not culture. Culture lies outside the purpose of
nature. Could by any chance culture be the meaning and
purpose of the second half of life?
In primitive tribes we observe that the old people are
almost always the guardians of the mysteries and the laws,
and it is in these that the cultural heritage of the tribe is
expressed. How does the matter stand with us? Where is
the wisdom of our old people, where are their precious
secrets and their visions? For the most part our old people
try to compete with the young. In the United States it is
almost an ideal for a father to be the brother of his sons,
and for the mother to be if possible the younger sister of
her daughter.
I do not know how much of this confusion is a reaction
against an earlier exaggeration of the dignity of age, and
how much is to be charged to false ideals. These undoubt-
edly exist, and the goal of those who hold them lies behind,
and not ahead. Therefore they are always striving to turn
back. We have to grant these people that it is hard to see
what other goal the second half of life can offer than the
well-known aims of the first. Expansion of life, usefulness,
efficiency, the cutting of a figure in society, the shrewd
steering of offspring into suitable marriages and good
positions—are not these purposes enough? Unfortunately
not enough meaning and purpose for those who see in
the approach of old age a mere diminution of life and can
The Si ages of Life : /o
feel their earlier ideals only as something faded and worn
out. Of course, if these persons had filled up the beaker
of life earlier and emptied it to the lees, they would feel
quite difTerently about everything now; they would have
kept nothing back, everything that wanted to catch fire
would have been consumed, and the quiet of old age would
be very welcome to them. But we must not forget that only
a very few people are artists in life; that the art of life is
the most distinguished and rarest of all the arts. Who ever
succeeded in draining the whole cup with grace? So for
many people all too much unlived life remains over —
sometimes potentialities which they could never have lived
with the best of wills, so that they approach the threshold
of old age with unsatisfied demands which inevitably turn
their glances backwards.
It is particularly fatal for such people to look back.
For them a prospect and a goal in the future are absolutely
necessary. That is why all great religions hold out the
promise of a life beyond, of a supramundane goal which
makes it possible for mortal man to live the second half
of life with as much purpose and aim as the first. For the
man of today the expansion of life and its culmination are
plausible goals, but the idea of life after death seems to
him questionable or beyond belief. Life's cessation, that
is, death, can only be accepted as a reasonable goal cither
when existence is so wretched that we are only too glad
for it to end, or when we are convinced that the sun strives
to its setting "to illuminate distant races" with the same
logical consistency it showed in rising to the zenith. But
to believe has become such a difficult art today that it is
beyond the capacity of most people, particularly the edu-
cated part of humanity. They have become too accustomed
to the thought that, with regard to immortality and such
questions, there are innumerable contradictory opinions
and no convincing proofs. And since "science" is the
catchword that seems to carry the weight of absolute con-
viction in the contemporary world, we ask for "scientific"
20 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
proofs. But educated people who can think know very well
that proof of this kind is a philosophical impossibility.
We simply cannot know anything whatever about such
things.
May I remark that for the same reasons we cannot know,
either, whether something does happen to a person after
death? No answer of any kind is permissible, either for
or against. We simply have no definite scientific knowledge
about it one way or the other, and are therefore in the
same position as when we ask whether the planet Mars is
inhabited or not. And the inhabitants of Mars, if there are
any, are certainly not concerned whether we affirm or
deny their existence. They may exist or they may not.
And that is how it stands with so-called immortality —
with which we may shelve the problem.
But here my medical conscience awakens and urges
me to say a word which has an important bearing on this
question. 1 have observed that a life directed to an aim
is in general better, richer, and healthier than an aimless
one, and that it is better to go forwards with the stream
of time than backwards against it. To the psychotherapist
an old man who cannot bid farewell to life appears as
feeble and sickly as a young man who is unable to embrace
it. And as a matter of fact, it is in many cases a question
of the selfsame childish greediness, the same fear, the
same defiance and wilfulness, in the one as in the other. As
a doctor I am convinced that it is hygienic — if I may use
the word— to discover in death a goal towards which one
can strive, and that shrinking away from it is something
unhealthy and abnormal which robs the second half of life
of its purpose 1 therefore consider that all religions with a
supramundane goal are eminently reasonable from the
point of view of psychic hygiene. When I live in a house
winch I know will fall about my head within, the next two
weeks, all my vital functions will be impaired by this
thought; but n" on the contrary 1 feel myself to be safe, I
can dwell there in a normal and comfortable way. From
The Stages of Life : 21
the standpoint of psychotherapy it would therefore be
desirable to think of death as only a transition, as part of a
life process whose extent and duration arc beyond our
knowledge.
In spite of the fact that the majority of people do not
know why the body needs salt, everyone demands it none-
theless because of an instinctive need. It is the same with
the things of the psyche. By far the greater portion of
mankind have from time immemorial felt the need of
believing in a continuance of life. The demands of therapy,
therefore, do not lead us into any bypaths but down the
middle of the highway trodden by humanity. For this
reason we are thinking correctly, and in harmony with
life, even though we do not understand what we think.
Do we ever understand what we think? We only under-
stand that kind of thinking which is a mere equation,
from which nothing comes out but what we have put in.
That is the working of the intellect. But besides that there
is a thinking in primordial images, in symbols which are
older than the historical man, which are inborn in him
from the earliest times, and, eternally living, outlasting all
generations, still make up the groundwork of the human
psyche. It is only possible to live the fullest life when we
are in harmony with these symbols; wisdom is a return
to them. It is a question neither of belief nor of knowl-
edge, but of the agreement of our thinking with the pri-
mordial images of the unconscious. They are the unthink-
able matrices of all our thoughts, no matter what our
conscious mind may cogitate. One of these primordial
thoughts is the idea of life after death. Science and these
primordial images are incommcnsurablcs. They are irra-
tional data, a priori conditions of the imagination which
are simply there, and whose purpose and justification
science can only investigate a posteriori, much as it in-
vestigates a function like that of the thyroid gland. Before
the nineteenth century the thyroid was regarded as a
meaningless organ merely because it was not understood.
22 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
It would be equally shortsighted of us today to call the
primordial images senseless. For me these images are
something like psychic organs, and I treat them with the
very greatest respect. It happens sometimes that I must say
to an older patient: "Your picture of God or your idea of
immortality is atrophied, consequently your psychic metab-
olism is out of gear." The ancient athanasias pharmakon,
the medicine of immortality, is more profound and mean-
ingful than we supposed.
In conclusion I would like to come back for a moment
to the comparison with the sun. The one hundred and
eighty degrees of the arc of life are divisible into four
parts. The first quarter, lying to the east, is childhood,
that state in which we are a problem for others but are
not yet conscious of any problems of our own. Conscious
problems fill out the second and third quarters; while in
the last, in extreme old a^e, we descend a^ain into that
condition where, regardless of our state of consciousness,
we once more become something of a problem for others.
Childhood and extreme old age are, of course, utterly
ditTerent, and yet they have one thing in common: sub-
mersion in unconscious psychic happenings. Since the mind
ot a child grows out of the unconscious its psychic proc-
esses, though not easily accessible, are not as difficult to
discern as those of a very old person who is sinking again
into the unconscious, and who progressively vanishes within
it. Childhood and old age are the stages of life without any
conscious problems, for which reason I have not taken
them into consideration here.
M2M
The Structure of
the Psyche 1
The psyche, as a reflection of the world and man, is a
thing of such infinite complexity that it can be observed
and studied from a great many sides. It faces us with the
same problem that the world does: because a systematic
study of the world is beyond our powers, we have to
content ourselves with mere rules of thumb and with aspects
that particularly interest us. Everyone makes for himself
his own segment of world and constructs his own private
system, often with air-tight compartments, so that after a
time it seems to him that he has grasped the meaning and
structure of the whole. But the finite will never be able to
1 From The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche. Collected Works,
Vol. 8, pars. 283-342. [Originally published as part of "Die
Erdbedingtheit der Psyche," in the symposium Mensch und Erde,
edited by Count Hermann Keyserling (Darmstadt, 1927). (The
other part became the essay "Seele und Erde," which is now
published as "Mind and Earth" in Vol. 10 of the Collected
Works.) The present work, constituting about the first half of
the 1927 publication, was published as "Die Struktur der Seele,"
Europaische Revue (Berlin), IV (1928), 1 and 2. It was later
revised and expanded in Seelenprobleme der Gegenwart (Psycho-
logische Abhandlungcn, III; Zurich, 1931), and this version is
translated here. — Editors of The Collected Works.]
23
24 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
grasp the infinite. Although the world of psychic phe-
nomena is only a part of the world as a whole, it may seem
easier to grasp precisely for that reason. But one would
be forgetting that the psyche is the only phenomenon that
is given to us immediately and, therefore, is the sine qua
non of all experience.
The only things we experience immediately are the con-
tents of consciousness. In saying this I am not attempting
to reduce the ''world" to our "idea" of it. What I am
trying to emphasize could be expressed from another point
of view by saying: Life is a function of the carbon atom.
This analogy reveals the limitations of the specialist point
of view, to which I succumb as soon as I attempt to say
anything explanatory about the world, or even a part of it.
My point of view is naturally a psychological one, and
moreover that of a practising psychologist whose task it is
to find the quickest road through the chaotic muddle of
complicated psychic states. This view must needs be very
different from that of the psychologist who can study an
isolated psychic process at his leisure, in the quiet of his
laboratory. The difference is roughly that between a surgeon
and an histologist. I also differ from the metaphysician,
who feels he has to say how things are "in themselves," and
whether they are absolute or not. My subject lies wholly
within the bounds of experience.
My prime need is to grasp complicated conditions and be
able to talk about them. I must be able to differentiate
between various groups of psychic facts. The distinctions
so made must not be arbitrary, since I have to reach an
understanding with my patient. I therefore have to rely on
simple schemata which on the one hand satisfactorily reflect
the empirical facts, and on the other hand link up with
what is generally known and so finds acceptance.
If we now set out to classify the contents of conscious-
ness, we shall begin, according to tradition, with the prop-
osition: Nihil est in intellectu quod non antea fuerit in
sensu.
The Structure of the Psyche : 25
Consciousness seems to stream into us from outside in
the form of sense-perceptions. We see, hear, taste, and
smell the world, and so arc conscious of the world. Sense-
perceptions tell us that something is. But they do not tell
us what it is. This is told us not by the process of percep-
tion but by the process of apperception, and this has a
highly complex structure. Not that sense-perception is
anything simple; only, its complex nature is not so much
psychic as physiological. The complexity of apperception,
on the other hand, is psychic. We can detect in it the co-
operation of a number of psychic processes. Supposing we
hear a noise whose nature seems to us unknown. After a
while it becomes clear to us that the peculiar noise must
come from air-bubbles rising in the pipes of the central
heating: we have recognized the noise. This recognition
derives from a process which we call thinking. Thinking
tells us what a thing is.
I have just called the noise "peculiar." When I character-
ize something as "peculiar," I am referring to the special
feeling-tone which that thing has. The feeling-tone implies
an evaluation.
The process of recognition can be conceived in essence
as comparison and differentiation with the help of mem-
ory. When I see a fire, for instance, the light-stimulus
conveys to me the idea "fire." As there are countless
memory-images of fire lying ready in my memory, these
images enter into combination with the fire-image I have
just received, and the process of comparing it with and
differentiating it from these memory-images produces the
recognition; that is to say, I finally establish in my mind
the peculiarity of this particular image. In ordinary speech
this process is called thinking.
The process of evaluation is different. The fire I see
arouses emotional reactions of a pleasant or unpleasant
nature, and the memory-images thus stimulated bring with
them concomitant emotional phenomena which are known
as feeling-tones. In this way an object appears to us as
26 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
pleasant, desirable, and beautiful, or as unpleasant, dis-
gusting, ugly, and so on. In ordinary speech this process is
called feeling.
The intuitive process is neither one of sense-perception,
nor of thinking, nor yet of feeling, although language
shows a regrettable lack of discrimination in this respect.
One person will exclaim: "I can see the whole house burn-
ing down already!" Another will say: "It is as certain as
two and two make four that there will be a disaster if a
fire breaks out here." A third will say: "I have the feeling
that this fire will lead to catastrophe." According to their
respective temperaments, the one speaks of his intuition
as a distinct seeing, that is, he makes a sense-perception
of it. The other designates it as thinking: "One has only
to reflect, and then it is quite clear what the consequences
will be." The third, under the stress of emotion, calls his
intuition a process of feeling. But intuition, as I conceive
it, is one of the basic functions of the psyche, namely,
perception of the possibilities inherent in a situation. It is
probably due to the insufficient development of language
that "feeling," "sensation," and "intuition" are still con-
fused in German, while sentiment and sensation in French,
and "feeling" and "sensation" in English, are absolutely
distinct, in contrast to sentiment and "feeling," which are
sometimes used as auxiliary words for "intuition." Recently,
however, "intuition" has begun to be commonly used in
linghsh speech.
As further contents of consciousness, we can also distin-
guish volitional processes and instinctual processes. The
former are defined as directed^ impulses, based on appercep-
tion, which are at the disposal of so-called free will. The
latter are impulses originating in the unconscious or di-
rectly in the body and are characterized by lack of freedom
and by compulsiveness.
Apperceptive processes may be either directed or un-
directed. In the former case we speak of "attention," in the
latter case of "fantasy" or "dreaming." The directed proc-
The Structure of the Psyche : 27
esses are rational, the undirected irrational. To these last-
named processes we must add — as the seventh category
of contents of consciousness — dreams. In some respects
dreams are like conscious fantasies in that they have an
undirected, irrational character. But they differ inasmuch
as their cause, course, and aim are, at first, very obscure.
I accord them the dignity of coming into the category of
conscious contents because they are the most important
and most obvious results of unconscious psychic processes
obtruding themselves upon consciousness. These seven
categories probably give a somewhat superficial survey of
the contents of consciousness, but they are sufficient for
our purpose.
There are, as we know, certain views which would
restrict everything psychic to consciousness, as being iden-
tical with it. I do not believe this is sufficient. If we assume
that there is anything at all beyond our sense-perception,
then we are entitled to speak of psychic elements whose
existence is only indirectly accessible to us. For anybody
acquainted with the psychology of hypnotism and somnam-
bulism, it is a well-known fact that though an artificially
or morbidly restricted consciousness of this kind does not
contain certain ideas, it nevertheless behaves exactly as if
it did. For instance, there was an hysterically deaf patient
who was fond of singing. One day the doctor unobtrusively
sat down at the piano and accompanied the next verse in
another key, whereupon the patient went on singing in the
new key. Another patient always fell into "hystero-
epileptic" convulsions at the sight of a naked flame. He
had a markedly restricted field of vision, that is, he suf-
fered from peripheral blindness (having what is known
as a "tubular" field of vision). If one now held a lighted
match in the blind zone, the attack followed just as if he
had seen the flame. In the symptomatology of such states
there are innumerable cases of this kind, where with the
best will in the world one can only say that these people
perceive, think, feel, remember, decide, and act uncon-
2S : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
i
sciously, doing unconsciously what others do consciously.
These processes occur regardless of whether consciousness
registers them or not.
These unconscious psychic processes also include the not
inconsiderable labour of composition that goes into a
dream. Though sleep is a state in which consciousness is
greatly restricted, the psyche by no means ceases to exist
and to act. Consciousness has merely withdrawn from it
and, lacking any objects to hold its attention, lapsed into a
state of comparative unconsciousness. But psychic life obvi-
ously goes on, just as there is unconscious psychic activity
during the waking state. Evidence for this is not difficult
to find; indeed, Freud has described this particular field
of experience in The Psycho pathology of Everyday Life,
He shows that our conscious intentions and actions are
often frustrated by unconscious processes whose very exist-
ence is a continual surprise to us. We make slips of the
tongue and slips in writing and unconsciously do things
that betray our most closely guarded secrets — which are
sometimes unknown even to ourselves. "Lingua lapsa
verum dicit," says an old proverb. These phenomena can
also be demonstrated experimentally by the association
tests, which are very useful for finding out things that
people cannot or will not speak about.
But the classic examples of unconscious psychic activity
arc to be found in pathological states. Almost the whole
symptomatology of hysteria, of the compulsion neuroses,
of phobias, and very largely of schizophrenia, the common-
est mental illness, has its roots in unconscious psychic
activity. We are therefore fully justified in speaking of an
unconscious psyche. It is not directly accessible to observa-
tion—otherwise it would not be unconscious — but can only
be inferred. Our inferences can never go beyond: "it is as
if."
The unconscious, then, is part of the psyche. Can we
now, on the analogy of the different contents of con-
sciousness, also speak of contents of the unconscious?
The Structure of the Psyche : 29
That would be postulating another consciousness, so to
speak, in the unconscious. I will not go into this delicate
question here, since I have discussed it in another connec-
tion, but will confine myself to inquiring whether we can
differentiate anything in the unconscious or not. This
question can only be answered empirically, that is, by the
counter-question whether there are any plausible grounds
for such a differentiation.
To my mind there is no doubt that all the activities ordi-
narily taking place in consciousness can also proceed in the
unconscious. There are numerous instances of an intel-
lectual problem, unsolved in the waking state, being solved
in a dream. I know, for instance, of an expert accountant
who had tried in vain for many days to clear up a fraudu-
lent bankruptcy. One day he had worked on it till midnight,
without success, and then went to bed. At three in the
morning his wife heard him get up and go into his study.
She followed, and saw him industriously making notes
at his desk. After about a quarter of an hour he came
back. In the morning he remembered nothing. He began
working again and discovered, in his own handwriting, a
number of notes which straightened out the whole tangle
finally and completely.
In my practical work I have been dealing with dreams
for more than twenty years. Over and over again I have
seen how thoughts that were not thought and feelings that
were not felt by day afterwards appeared in dreams, and
in this way reached consciousness indirectly. The dream
as such is undoubtedly a content of consciousness, other-
wise it could not be an object of immediate experience. But
in so far as it brings up material that was unconscious be-
fore, we are forced to assume that these contents already
had some kind of psychic existence in an unconscious state
and appeared to the "remnant*' of consciousness only in
the dream. The dream belongs to the normal contents of
the psyche and may be regarded as a resultant of uncon-
scious processes obtruding on consciousness.
30 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
Now if, with these experiences in mind, we are driven
to asume that all the categories of conscious contents can
on occasion also be unconscious, and can act on the con-
scious mind as unconscious processes, we find ourselves
faced with the somewhat unexpected question whether
the unconscious has dreams too. In other words, are there
resultants of still deeper and — if that be possible — still
more unconscious processes which infiltrate into the dark
regions of the psyche? I should have to dismiss this para-
doxical question as altogether too adventurous were there
not, in fact, grounds which bring such an hypothesis
within the realm of possibility.
We must first see what sort of evidence is required to
prove that the unconscious has dreams. If we wish to prove
that dreams appear as contents of consciousness, we have
simply to show that there are certain contents which, in
character and meaning, are strange and not to be compared
with the other contents which can be rationally explained
and understood. If we are to show that the unconscious
also has dreams, we must treat its contents in a similar way.
It will be simplest if I give a practical example:
The case is that of an officer, twenty-seven years of age.
He was suffering from severe attacks of pain in the region
of the heart and from a choking sensation in the threat,
as though a lump were stuck there. He also had piercing
pains in the left heel. There was nothing organically the
matter with him. The attacks had begun about two months
previously, and the patient had been exempted from mili-
tary service on account of his occasional inability to walk.
Various cures had availed nothing. Close investigation into
the previous history of his illness gave no clue, and he
himself had no idea what the cause might be. He gave the
impression of having a cheerful, rather light-hearted nature,
perhaps a bit on the tough side, as though saying theatri-
cally: " You can't keep us down." As the anamnesis revealed
nothing, 1 asked about his dreams. It at once became
apparent what the cause was. Just before the beginning of
The Structure of the Psyche : 31
his neurosis the girl with whom he was in love jilted him
and got engaged to another man. In talking to me he dis-
missed this whole story as irrelevant — "a stupid girl, if
she doesn't want me it's easy enough to get another one.
A man like me isn't upset by a thing like that." That was
the way he treated his disappointment and his real grief.
But now the affects came to the surface. The pains in his
heart soon disappeared, and the lump in his throat vanished
after a few bouts of weeping. "Heartache" is a poeticism,
but here it became an actual fact because his pride would
not allow him to suffer the pain in his soul. The "lump in
the throat," the so-called globus hystericus, comes, as
everyone knows, from swallowed tears. His consciousness
had simply withdrawn from contents that were too painful
to him, and these, left to themselves, could reach con-
sciousness only indirectly, as symptoms. All this was a
rationally understandable and perfectly intelligible process,
which could just as well have passed off consciously, had
it not been for his masculine pride.
But now for the third symptom. The pains in the heel
did not disappear. They do not belong in the picture we
have just sketched, for the heart is in no way connected
with the heel, nor does one express sorrow through the
heel. From the rational point of view, one cannot see why
the other two syndromes should not have sufficed. The-
oretically, it would have been entirely satisfactory if the
conscious realization of the repressed psychic pain had
resulted in normal grief and hence in a cure.
As I could get no clue to the heel symptom from the
patient's conscious mind, I turned once more to the pre-
vious method — to the dreams. The patient now had a
dream in which he was bitten in the heel by a snake and
instantly paralyzed. This dream plainly offered an inter-
pretation of the heel symptom. His heel hurt him because
he had been bitten there by a snake. This is a very strange
content, and one can make nothing of it rationally. We
could understand at once why his heart ached, but that
J2 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
his heel should ache too is beyond all rational expectation.
The patient was completely mystified.
Here, then, we have a content that propels itself into
the unconscious zone in a singular manner, and probably
derives from some deeper layer that cannot be fathomed
rationally. The nearest analogy to this dream is obviously
the neurosis itself. When the girl jilted him, she gave
him a wound that paralyzed him and made him ill. Further
analysis of the dream elicited something from his previous
history that now became clear to the patient for the first
time: He had been the darling of a somewhat hysterical
mother. She had pitied him, admired him, pampered him
so much that he never got along properly at school because
he was too girlish. Later he suddenly swung over to the
masculine side and went into the army, where he was able
to hide his inner weakness by a display of "toughness."
Thus, in a sense, his mother too had lamed him.
We are evidently dealing here with that same old serpent
who had been the special friend of Eve. "And I will put
enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy
seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt
bruise his heel," runs the saying in Genesis, an echo of the
much more ancient Egyptian hymn that used to be recited
or chanted for the cure of snake-bite:
The mouth of the god trembled with age,
His spittle fell to the earth,
And what he spat forth fell upon the ground,
1 hen Isis kneaded it with her hands
Together with the earth which was there;
And she made it like a spear.
She wound not the living snake about her face,
But threw it in a coil upon the path
Where the great god was wont to wander
At his pleasure through his two kingdoms.
The noble god stepped forth in splendour,
1 he gods serving Pharaoh bore him company,
And he went forth as was each day his wont.
Then the noble worm stung him . . '.
The Structure of the Psyche : 33
His jawbones chattered,
He trembled in all his limbs,
And the poison invaded his flesh
As the Nile invades his territory. 2
The patient's conscious knowledge of the Bible was at a
lamentable minimum. Probably he had once heard of the
serpent biting the heel and then quickly forgotten it. But
something deep in his unconscious heard it and did not
forget; it remembered this story at a suitable opportunity.
This part of the unconscious evidently likes to express it-
self mythologically, because this way of expression is in
keeping with its nature.
But to what kind of mentality does the symbolical or
metaphorical way of expression correspond? It corresponds
to the mentality of the primitive, whose language possesses
no abstractions but only natural and "unnatural" analogies.
This primeval mentality is as foreign to the psyche that
produced the heartache and the lump in the throat as a
brontosaurus is to a racehorse. The dream of the snake
reveals a fragment of psychic activity that has nothing
whatever to do with the dreamer as a modern individual.
It functions at a deeper level, so to speak, and only the
results of this activity rise up into the upper layer where
the repressed affects lie, as foreign to them as a dream is
to waking consciousness. Just as some kind of analytical
technique is needed to understand a dream, so a knowledge
of mythology is needed in order to grasp the meaning of
a content deriving from the deeper levels of the psyche.
The snake-motif was certainly not an individual acquisi-
tion of the dreamer, for snake-dreams are very common
even among city-dwellers who have probably never seen
a real snake.
It might be objected that the snake in the dream is
nothing but a concretized figure of speech. We say of cer-
tain women that they arc treacherous as snakes, wily as
2 Adolf Erman, Life in Ancient Egypt, translated by H. M.Tirard
(London, 1894), pp. 265-67, modified.
34 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
serpents; wc speak of the snake of temptation, etc. This
objection does not seem to me to hold good in the present
instance, though it would be difficult to prove this because
the snake is in fact a common figure of speech. A more
certain proof would be possible only if we succeeded in
finding a case where the mythological symbolism is neither
a common figure of speech nor an instance of cryptomnesia
— that is to say, where the dreamer had not read, seen, or
heard the motif somewhere, and then forgotten it and
remembered it unconsciously. This proof seems to me of
great importance, since it would show that the rationally
explicable unconscious, which consists of material that
has been made unconscious artificially, as it were, is only
a top layer, and that underneath is an absolute unconscious
which has nothing to do with our personal experience.
This absolute unconscious would then be a psychic activity
which goes on independently of the conscious mind and is
not dependent even on the upper layers of the unconscious,
untouched — and perhaps untouchable — by personal ex-
perience. It would be a kind of supra-individual psychic
activity, a collective unconscious, as I have called it, as
distinct from a superficial, relative, or personal uncon-
scious.
But before we go in search of this proof, I would like,
for the sake of completeness, to make a few more remarks
about the snake-dream. It seems as if this hypothetical
deeper layer of the unconscious — the collective uncon-
scious, as I shall now call it— had translated the pa-
tient's experiences with women into the snake-bite dream
and thus turned them into a regular mythological motif.
The reason— or rather, the purpose — of this is at first
somewhat obscure. But if we remember the fundamental
principle that the symptomatology of an illness is at the
same time a natural attempt at healing— the heartaches,
for example, being an attempt to produce an emotional
outburst— then we must regard the heel symptom as an
attempt at healing too. As the dream shows, not only the
recent disappointment in love, but all other disappoint-
The Structure of the Psyche : 35
ments, in school and elsewhere, are raised by this symptom
to the level of a mythological event, as though this would
in some way help the patient.
This may strike us as flatly incredible. But the ancient
Egyptian priest-physicians, who intoned the hymn to the
Isis-serpent over the snake-bite, did not find this theory
at all incredible; and not only they, but the whole world
believed, as the primitive today still believes, in magic by
analogy or "sympathetic magic."
We are concerned here, then, with the psychological
phenomenon that lies at the root of magic by analogy. We
should not think that this is an ancient superstition which
we have long since outgrown. If you read the Latin text
of the Mass carefully, you will constantly come upon the
famous "sicut"; this always introduces an analogy by
means of which a change is to be produced. Another strik-
ing example of analogy is the making of fire on Holy Satur-
day. In former times, the new fire was struck from the
stone, and still earlier it was obtained by boring into a
piece of wood, which was the prerogative of the Church.
Therefore in the prayer of the priest it is said: 4fc Deus, qui
per Filium tuum, angularem scilicet lapidem, claritatis tuae
fidelibus ignem contulisti productum ex silice, nostris pro-
futurum usibus, novum hunc ignem sanctifica." — "O God,
who through thy Son, who is called the cornerstone, hast
brought the fire of thy light to the faithful, make holy
for our future use this new fire struck from the firestone."
By the analogy of Christ with the cornerstone, the firestone
is raised to the level of Christ himself, who again kindles
a new fire.
The rationalist may laugh at this. But something deep
in us is stirred, and not in us alone but in millions of
Christian men and women, though we may call it only a
feeling for beauty. What is stirred in us is that faraway
background, those immemorial patterns of the human
mind, which we have not acquired but have inherited from
the dim ages of the past.
If this supra-individual psyche exists, everything that is
j6 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
translated into its picture-language would be depersonal-
ized, and if this became conscious would appear to us
sub specie aetemitatis. Not as my sorrow, but as the sor-
row of the world; not a personal isolating pain, but a pain
without bitterness that unites all humanity. The healing
effect of this needs no proof.
But as to whether this supra-individual psychic activity
actually exists, I have so far given no proof that satisfies all
the requirements. I should now like to do this once more
in the form of an example. The case is that of a man in
his thirties, who was suffering from a paranoid form of
schizophrenia. He became ill in his early twenties. He had
always presented a strange mixture of intelligence, wrong-
hcadedness, and fantastic ideas. He was an ordinary clerk,
employed in a consulate. Evidently as a compensation for
his very modest existence he was seized with megalomania
and believed himself to be the Saviour. He suffered from
frequent hallucinations and was at times very much dis-
turbed. In his quiet periods he was allowed to go unat-
tended in the corridor. One day I came across him there,
blinking through the window up at the sun, and moving
his head from side to side in a curious manner. He took
me by the arm and said he wanted to show me something.
He said I must look at the sun with eyes half shut, and
then I could see the sun's phallus. If I moved my head
from side to side the sun-phallus would move too, and
that was the origin of the wind.
I made this observation about 1906. In the course of
the year 19 10, when I was engrossed in mythological stud-
ies, a book of Dicterichfs came into my hands. It was part
of the so-called Paris magic papyrus and was thought by
Dicterich to be a liturgy of the Mithraic cult.-'* It consisted
of a series of instructions, invocations, and visions. One of
MAIbrccht Dicterich, Erne Mithraslitwgie (London, 1903; 2nd ed.,
1910), pp. 6-7. As ihe author subsequently learned, the 1910 edi-
tion was actually the second, there having been a first edition in
1903. The patient had, however, been committed some years before
1903.
The Structure of the Psyche : 37
these visions is described in the following words: "And
likewise the so-called tube, the origin of the ministering
wind. For you will see hanging down from the disc of the
sun something that looks like a tube. And towards the re-
gions westward it is as though there were an infinite east
wind. But if the other wind should prevail towards the
regions of the east, you will in like manner see the vision
veering in that direction." The Greek word for "tube,"
avAos, means a wind-instrument, and the combination
avAo<? Tragi's in Homer means "a thick jet of blood." So
evidently a stream of wind is blowing through the tube
out of the sun.
The vision of my patient in 1906, and the Greek text
first edited in 19 10, should be sufficiently far apart to rule
out the possibility of cryptomnesia on his side and of
thought-transference on mine. The obvious parallelism of
the two visions cannot be disputed, though one might ob-
ject that the similarity is purely fortuitous. In that case we
should expect the vision to have no connections with
analogous ideas, nor any inner meaning. But this expecta-
tion is not fulfilled, for in certain medieval paintings this
tube is actually depicted as a sort of hose-pipe reaching
down from heaven under the robe of Mary. In it the Holy
Ghost flics down in the form of a dove to impregnate the
Virgin. As we know from the miracle of Pentecost, the
Holy Ghost was originally conceived as a mighty rushing
wind, the irvivjxa, "the wind that bloweth where it listeth."
In a Latin text we read: "Animo descensus per orbem
solis tribuitur" (They say that the spirit descends through
the disc of the sun). This conception is common to the
whole of late classical and medieval philosophy.
I cannot, therefore, discover anything fortuitous in these
visions, but simply the revival of possibilities of ideas that
have always existed, that can be found again in the most
diverse minds and in all epochs, and arc therefore not to
be mistaken for inherited ideas.
I have purposely gone into the details of this case in
j8 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
order to give you a concrete picture of that deeper psychic
activity which I call the collective unconscious. Summing
up, I would like to emphasize that we must distinguish
three psychic levels; (i) consciousness, (2) the personal
unconscious, and (3) the collective unconscious. The per-
sonal unconscious consists firstly of all those contents that
became unconscious either because they lost their intensity
and were forgotten or because consciousness was with-
drawn from them (repression), and secondly of contents,
some of them sense-impressions, which never had sufficient
intensity to reach consciousness but have somehow entered
the psyche. The collective unconscious, however, as the
ancestral heritage of possibilities of representation, is not
individual but common to all men, and perhaps even to
all animals, and is the true basis of the individual psyche.
This whole psychic organism corresponds exactly to the
body, which, though individually varied, is in all essential
features the specifically human body which all men have,
In its development and structure, it still preserves elements
that connect it with the invertebrates and ultimately with
the protozoa. Theoretically it should be possible to "peel"
the collective unconscious, layer by layer, until we came
to the psychology of the worm, and even of the amoeba.
We are all agreed that it would be quite impossible to
understand the living organism apart from its relation to
the environment. There are countless biological facts that
can only be explained as reactions to environmental con-
ditions, e.g., the blindness of Proteus anguinus, the pecu-
liarities of intestinal parasites, the anatomy of vertebrates
that have reverted to aquatic life.
The same is true of the psyche. Its peculiar organization
must be intimately connected with environmental condi-
tions. We should expect consciousness to react and adapt
itself to the present, because it is that part of the psyche
which is concerned chiefly with events of the moment.
But from the collective unconscious, as a timeless and
universal psyche, we should expect reactions to universal
The Structure of the Psyche : 39
and constant conditions, whether psychological, physiolog-
ical, or physical,
The collective unconscious — so far as we can say any^
thing about it at all — appears to consist of mythological
motifs or primordial images, for which reason the myths
of all nations are its real exponents. In fact, the whole of
mythology could be taken as a sort of projection of the
collective unconscious. We can see this most clearly if we
look at the heavenly constellations, whose originally chaotic
forms were organized through the projection of images.
This explains the influence of the stars as asserted by as-
trologers. These influences are nothing but unconscious,
introspective perceptions of the activity of the collective
unconscious. Just as the constellations were projected into
the heavens, similar figures were projected into legends
and fairy tales or upon historical persons. We can there-
fore study the collective unconscious in two ways, either
in mythology or in the analysis of the individual. As I
cannot make the latter material available here, I must con-
fine myself to mythology. This is such a wide field that
we can select from it only a few types. Similarly, environ-
mental conditions are endlessly varied, so here too only
a few of the more typical can be discussed.
Just as the living body with its special characteristics is
a system of functions for adapting to environmental con-
ditions, so the psyche must exhibit organs or functional
systems that correspond to regular physical events. By this
I do not mean sense-functions dependent on organs, but
rather a sort of psychic parallel to regular physical occur-
rences. To take an example, the daily course of the sun and
the regular alternation of day and night must have im-
printed themselves on the psyche in the form of an image
from primordial times. We cannot demonstrate the exist-
ence of this image, but we find instead more or less fan-
tastic analogies of the physical process. Every morning a
divine hero is born from the sea and mounts the chariot
of the sun. In the West a Great Mother awaits him, and
40 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
he is devoured by her in the evening. In the belly of a
dragon he traverses the depths of the midnight sea. After
a frightful combat with the serpent of night he is born
again in the morning.
This conglomerate myth undoubtedly contains a re-
flection of the physical process. Indeed this is so obvious
that many investigators assume that primitives invent such
myths merely to explain physical processes. There can be
no doubt that science and philosophy have grown from
this matrix, but that primitives think up such things merely
from a need for explanation, as a sort of physical or as-
tronomical theory, seems to me highly improbable.
What we can safely say about mythical images is that
the physical process imprinted itself on the psyche in this
fantastic, distorted form and was preserved there, so that
the unconscious still reproduces similar images today.
Naturally the question now arises: why does the psyche
not register the actual process, instead of mere fantasies
about the physical process?
If you can put yourself in the mind of the primitive, you
will at once understand why this is so. He lives in such
"participation mystique" with his world, as Levy-Bruhl
calls it, that there is nothing like that absolute distinction
between subject and object which exists in our minds.
What happens outside also happens in him, and what hap-
pens in him also happens outside. I witnessed a very fine
example of this when I was with the Elgonyi, a primitive
tribe living on Mount Elgon, in East Africa. At sunrise
they spit on their hands and then hold the palms towards
the sun as it comes over the horizon. "We are happy that
the night is past," they say. Since the word for sun, adhista,
also means God, I asked: "Is the sun God?" They said
"No" to this and laughed, as if I had said something es-
pecially stupid. As the sun was just then high in the heav-
ens, I pointed to it and asked: "When the sun is there you
say it is not God, but when it is in the east you say it is
God. How is that?" There was an embarrassed silence till
The Structure of the Psyche : 41
an old chief began to explain. "It is so," he said. "When
the sun is up there it is not God, but when it rises, that is
God [or: then it is God]." To the primitive mind it is im-
material which of these two versions is correct. Sunrise
and his own feeling of deliverance are for him the same
divine experience, just as night and his fear are the same
thing. Naturally his emotions are more important to him
than physics; therefore what he registers is his emotional
fantasies. For him night means snakes and the cold breath
of. spirits, whereas morning means the birth of a beautiful
god.
There are mythological theories that explain everything
as coming from the sun and lunar theories that do the
same for the moon. This is due to the simple fact that
there are countless myths about the moon, among them a
whole host in which the moon is the wife of the sun. The
moon is the changing experience of the night, and thus
coincides with the primitive's sexual experience of woman,
who for him is also the experience of the night. But the
moon can equally well be the injured brother of the sun,
for at night afTect-laden and evil thoughts of power and
revenge may disturb sleep. The moon, too, is a disturber of
sleep, and is also the abode of departed souls, for at night
the dead return in dreams and the phantoms of the past
terrify the sleepless. Thus the moon also signifies madness
('lunacy"). It is such experiences as these that have im-
pressed themselves on the mind, rather than the changing
image of the moon.
It is not storms, not thunder and lightning, not rain and
cloud that remain as images in the psyche, but the fantasies
caused by the affects they arouse. I once experienced a
violent earthquake, and my first, immediate feeling was
that 1 no longer stood on the solid and familiar earth, but
on the skin of a gigantic animal that was heaving under
my feet. It was this image that impressed itself on me,
not the physical fact. Man's curses against devastating
thunderstorms, his terror of the unchained elements —
42 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
these affects anthropomorphize the passion of nature, and
the purely physical element becomes an angry god,
Like the physical conditions of his environment, the
physiological conditions, glandular secretions, etc., also can
arouse fantasies charged with affect. Sexuality appears as
a god of fertility, as a fiercely sensual, feminine daemon,
as the devil himself with Dionysian goat's legs and obscene
gestures, or as a terrifying serpent that squeezes its victims
to death.
Hunger makes food into gods. Certain Mexican tribes
even give their food-gods an annual holiday to allow them
to recuperate, and during this time the staple food is not
eaten. The ancient Pharaohs were worshipped as eaters of
gods. Osiris is the wheat, the son of the earth,, and to this
day the Host must be made of wheat-meal, i.e., a god to
be eaten, as also was Iacchos, the mysterious god of the
Eleusinian mysteries. The bull of Mithras is the edible
fruitfulness of the earth.
The psychological conditions of the environment nat-
urally leave similar mythical traces behind them. Danger-
ous situations, be they dangers to the body or to the soul,
arouse affect-laden fantasies, and, in so far as such situa-
tions typically repeat themselves, they give rise to arche*
types, as 1 have termed myth-motifs in general.
Dragons make their lairs by watercourses, preferably
near a ford or some such dangerous crossing; jinn and
other devils arc to be found in waterless deserts or in
dangerous gorges; spirits of the dead haunt the eerie thick-
ets of the bamboo forest; treacherous nixies and sea-ser-
pents live in the depths of the ocean and its whirlpools.
Mighty ancestor-spirits or gods dwell in the man of im-
portance; deadly fetish-power resides in anyone strange
or extraordinary. Sickness and death are never due to
natural causes, but arc invariably caused by spirits, witches,
or wizards. Even the weapon that has killed a man is mana,
endowed with extraordinary power.
How is it then, you may ask, with the most ordinary
The Structure of the Psyche : 43
everyday events, with immediate realities like husband,
wife, father, mother, child? These ordinary everyday facts,
which are eternally repeated, create the mightiest arche-
types of all, whose ceaseless activity is everywhere appar^
ent even in a rationalistic age like ours. Let us take as an
example the Christian dogma. The Trinity consists of
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, who is represented by the
bird of Astarte, the dove, and who in early Christian times
was called Sophia and thought of as feminine. The wor-
ship of Mary in the later Church is an obvious substitute
for this. Here we have the archetype of the family l v
imepovpavLy toVo), "in a supracelestial place," as Plato ex-
presses it, enthroned as a formulation of the ultimate mys-
tery. Christ is the bridegroom, the Church is the bride, the
baptismal font is the womb of the Church, as it is still
called in the text of the Benedictio f otitis. The holy water
has salt put into it, with the idea of making it like the
amniotic fluid, or like sea-water. A hieros gamos or sacred
wedding is performed on Holy Saturday before Easter,
which 1 have just mentioned, and a burning candle as a
phallic symbol is plunged three times into the font, in
order to fertilize it and lend it the power to bear the bap-
tized child anew (quasimodo gcnitits). The nuina per-
sonality, the medicine-man, is the pontifex maximus, the
Papa; the Church is mater ecclesla, the magna mater of
magical power, and mankind are children in need of help
and grace.
The deposit of mankind's whole ancestral experience —
so rich in emotional imagery — of father, mother, child,
husband and wife, of the magic personality, of dangers to
body and soul, has exalted this group of archetypes into
the supreme regulating principles of religious and even of
political life, in unconscious recognition of their tremen-
dous psychic power.
I have found that a rational understanding of these
things in no way detracts from their value; on the con-
trary, it helps us not only to feel but to gain insight into
44 ' The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
their immense significance. These mighty projections en-
able the Catholic to experience large tracts of his collective
unconscious in tangible reality. He has no need to go in
search of authority, superior power, revelation, or some-
thing that would link him with the eternal and the timeless.
These are always present and available for him: there, in
the Holy of Holies on every altar, dwells the presence of
God. It is the Protestant and the Jew who have to seek,
the one because he has, in a manner of speaking, destroyed
the earthly body of the Deity, the other because he can
never find it. For both of them the archetypes, which to
the Catholic world have become a visible and living reality,
lie in the unconscious. Unfortunately I cannot enter here
into the remarkable differences of attitude towards the
unconscious in our culture, but would only point out that
this question is one of the greatest problems confronting
humanity.
That this is so is immediately understandable when we
consider that the unconscious, as the totality of all arche-
types, is the deposit of all human experience right back to
its remotest beginnings. Not, indeed, a dead deposit, a
sort of abandoned rubbish-heap, but a living system of
reactions and aptitudes that determine the individual's life
in invisible ways — all the more effective because invisible.
It is not just a gigantic historical prejudice, so to speak, an
a priori historical condition; it is also the source of the
instincts, for the archetypes are simply the forms which
the instincts assume. From the living fountain of instinct
flows everything that is creative; hence the unconscious
is not merely conditioned by history, but is the very source
of the creative impulse. It is like Nature herself— prodi-
giously conservative, and yet transcending her own his-
torical conditions in her acts of creation. No wonder, then,
that it has always been a burning question for humanity
how best to adapt to these invisible determinants. If con-
sciousness had never split off from the unconscious — an
eternally repeated event symbolized as the fall of the angels
The Structure of the Psyche : 45
and the disobedience of the first parents — this problem
would never have arisen, any more than would the ques-
tion of environmental adaptation.
The existence of an individual consciousness makes man
aware of the difficulties of his inner as well as his outer
life. Just as the world about him takes on a friendly or a
hostile aspect to the eyes of primitive man, so the influ-
ences of his unconscious seem to him like an opposing
power, with which he has to come to terms just as with the
visible world. His countless magical practices serve this
end. On higher levels of civilization, religion and philoso-
phy fulfil the same purpose. Whenever such a system of
adaptation breaks down a general unrest begins to appear,
and attempts are made to find a suitable new form of re-
lationship to the unconscious.
These things seem very remote to our modern, "en-
lightened" eyes. When I speak of this hinterland of the
mind, the unconscious, and compare its reality with that
of the visible world, I often meet with an incredulous
smile. But then I must ask how many people there are in
our civilized world who still believe in mana and spirits
and suchlike theories — in other words, how many millions
of Christian Scientists and spiritualists are there? I will
not add to this list of questions. They are merely intended
to illustrate the fact that the problem of invisible psychic
determinants is as alive today as ever it was.
The collective unconscious contains the whole spiritual
heritage of mankind's evolution, born anew in the brain
structure of every individual. His conscious mind is an
ephemeral phenomenon that accomplishes all provisional
adaptations and orientations, for which reason one can
best compare its function to orientation in space. The
unconscious, on the other hand, is the source of the in-
stinctual forces of the psyche and of the forms or cate-
gories that regulate them, namely the archetypes. All the
most powerful ideas in history go back to archetypes. This
is particularly true of religious ideas, but the central con-
46 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
cepts of science, philosophy, and ethics are no exception
to this rule. In their present form they are variants of
archetypal ideas, created by consciously applying and
adapting these ideas to reality. For it is the function of
consciousness not only to recognize and assimilate the
external world through the gateway of the senses, but to
translate into visible reality the world within us.
M5M
Instinct and the
Unconscious 1
The theme of this symposium concerns a problem that is
of great importance for biology as well as for psychology
and philosophy. But if we are to discuss the relation be-
tween instinct and the unconscious, it is essential that we
start out with a clear definition of our terms.
With regard to the definition of instinct, I would like to
stress the significance of the "all-or-none" reaction formu-
lated by Rivers; indeed, it seems to me that this peculiarity
of instinctive activity is of special importance for the
1 From The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche. Collected Works,
Vol. 8, pars. 263-282. A contribution to the symposium of the same
name, presented, in an English translation by C. F. and H. G.
Baynes, at a joint meeting of the Aristotelian Society, the Mind
Association, and the British Psychological Society, at Bedford Col-
lege, London University, July, 19 19. [First published in the British
Journal of Psychology (General Section) (London), X (1919): I,
15-26; republished in Contributions to Analytical Psychology (Lon-
don and New York, 1928). The original ms. was subsequently pub-
lished as "Instinkl und Unbewusstes" in U her die Energetik der Seele
(Psychologischc Abhandlungen, II; Zurich, 1928); republished, with
a short concluding note, in Uher psych ische Energetik und das Wesen
der Triiume (Zurich, 1948). The Baynes version has been consulted
in the preparation of the present translation. — Editors of The Col-
lee ted Works.]
47
4S : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
psychological side of the problem. I must naturally con-
fine myself to this aspect of the question, because I do not
feel competent to treat the problem of instinct under its
biological aspect. But when I attempt to give a psycholog-
ical definition of instinctive activity, I find I cannot rely
solely on Rivers' criterion of the "all-or-none" reaction,
and for the following reason: Rivers defines this reaction
as a process that shows no gradation of intensity in respect
of the circumstances which provoke it. It is a reaction that
takes place with its own specific intensity under all cir-
cumstances and is not proportional to the precipitating
stimulus. But when we examine the psychological processes
of consciousness in order to determine whether there are
any whose intensity is out of all proportion to the stimulus,
we can easily find a great many of them in everybody, for
instance disproportionate affects, impressions, exaggerated
impulses, intentions that go too far, and others of the kind.
It follows that all these processes cannot possibly be classed
as instinctive processes, and we must therefore look round
for another criterion.
We use the word "instinct" very frequently in ordinary
speech. We speak of "instinctive actions," meaning by
that a mode of behaviour of which neither the motive nor
the aim is fully conscious and which is prompted only by
obscure inner necessity. This peculiarity has already been
stressed by an older English writer, Thomas Reid, who
says: "By instinct, I mean a natural impulse to certain
actions, without having any end in view, without delibera-
tion and without any conception of what we do." 2 Thus
instinctive action is characterized by an unconsciousness
of the psychological motive behind it, in contrast to the
strictly conscious processes which are distinguished by the
conscious continuity of their motives. Instinctive action
appears to be a more or less abrupt psychic occurrence, a
sort of interruption of the continuity of consciousness. On
2 Thomas Rcicl, Essays on the Active Powers of Man (Edinburgh,
1788), p. 103.
Instinct and the Unconscious : 49
this account, it is felt as an inner necessity — which is, in
fact, the definition of instinct given by Kant. 3
Accordingly, instinctive activity would have to be in-
cluded among the specifically unconscious processes, which
are accessible to consciousness only through their results.
But were we to rest content with this conception of in-
stinct, we should soon discover its insufficiency: it merely
marks off instinct from the conscious processes and char-
acterizes it as unconscious. If, on the other hand, we survey
the unconscious processes as a whole, we find it impossible
to class them all as instinctive, even though no differentia-
tion is made between them in ordinary speech. If you
suddenly meet a snake and get a violent fright, you can
legitimately call this impulse instinctive because it is no
different from the instinctive fear of snakes in monkeys. It
is just the uniformity of the phenomenon and the regularity
of its recurrence which are the most characteristic qualities
of instinctive action. As Lloyd Morgan aptly remarks, it
would be as uninteresting to bet on an instinctive reaction
as on the rising of the sun tomorrow. On the other hand,
it may also happen that someone is regularly seized with
fright whenever he meets a perfectly harmless hen. Al-
though the mechanism of fright in this case is just as much
an unconscious impulse as the instinct, we must neverthe-
less distinguish between the two processes. In the former
case the fear of snakes is a purposive process of general
occurrence; the latter, when habitual, is a phobia and not
an instinct, since it occurs only in isolation and is not a
general peculiarity. There are many other unconscious
compulsions of this kind — for instance, obsessive thoughts,
musical obsessions, sudden ideas and moods, impulsive
affects, depressions, anxiety states, etc. These phenomena
are met with in normal as well as abnormal individuals.
In so far as they occur only in isolation and are not re-
peated regularly they must be distinguished from instinc-
3 Immanucl Kant, Anthropologic, in Weike, Ernst Cassircr, cd.
(Berlin, 1912-22), Vol. Vlll, p. 156.
$o : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
tive processes, even though their psychological mechanism
seems to correspond to that of an instinct. They may even
be characterized by the all-or-none reaction, as can easily
be observed in pathological cases. In psychopathology there
arc many such cases where a given stimulus is followed by
a definite and relatively disproportionate reaction com-
parable to an instinctive reaction.
All these processes must be distinguished from instinc-
tive ones. Only those unconscious processes which are in-
herited, and occur uniformly and regularly, can be called
instinctive. At the same time they must show the mark of
compelling necessity, a reflex character of the kind pointed
out by Herbert Spencer. Such a process differs from a mere
sensory-motor reflex only because it is more complicated.
William James therefore calls instinct, not unjustly, "a
mere excito-motor impulse, due to the pre-existence of a
certain 'reflex-arc' in the nerve-centres." 4 Instincts share
with reflexes their uniformity and regularity as well as the
unconsciousness of their motivations.
The question of where instincts come from and how they
were acquired is extraordinarily complicated. The fact that
they are invariably inherited does nothing to explain their
origin; it merely shifts the problem back to our ancestors.
The view is widely held that instincts originated in individ-
ual, and then general, acts of will that were frequently re-
peated. This explanation is plausible in so far as we can
observe every day how certain laboriously learnt activities
gradually become automatic through constant practice. But
if we consider the marvellous instincts to be found in the
animal world, we must admit that the element of learning
is sometimes totally absent. In certain cases it is impossible
to conceive how any learning and practice could ever have
come about. Let us take as an example the incredibly re-
fined instinct of propagation in the yucca moth (Pronuba
♦William James, Principles of Psychology (New York, 1890, 2
vols.), Vol. II, p. 391.
Instinct and the Unconscious : 5/
yuccasella) , 5 The flowers of the yucca plant open for one
night only. The moth takes the pollen from one of the
flowers and kneads it into a little pellet. Then it visits a
second flower, cuts open the pistil, lays its eggs between
the ovules and then stuffs the pellet into the funnel-shaped
opening of the pistil. Only once in its life does the moth
carry out this complicated operation.
Such cases are difficult to explain on the hypothesis of
learning and practice. Hence other ways of explanation,
deriving from Bergson's philosophy, have recently been
put forward, laying stress on the factor of intuition. Intui-
tion is an unconscious process in that its result is the irrup-
tion into consciousness of an unconscious content, a sud-
den idea or "hunch." ° It resembles a process of perception,
but unlike the conscious activity of the senses and intro-
spection the perception is unconscious. That is why we
speak of intuition as an "instinctive" act of comprehension.
It is a process analogous to instinct, with the difference
that whereas instinct is a purposive impulse to carry out
some highly complicated action, intuition is the uncon-
scious, purposive apprehension of a highly complicated
situation. In a sense, therefore, intuition is the reverse of
instinct, neither more nor less wonderful than it. But we
should never forget that what we call complicated or even
wonderful is not at all wonderful for Nature, but quite
ordinary. We always tend to project into things our own
difficulties of understanding and to call them complicated,
when in reality they are very simple and know nothing of
our intellectual problems.
A discussion of the problem of instinct without reference
to the concept of the unconscious would be incomplete,
because it is just the instinctive processes which make the
supplementary concept of the unconscious necessary. I dc-
r * Anton Kcrncr von Marilaun, The Natural History of Plants,
translated by F.W. Oliver and others (London, 1902, 2 vols.),
Vol. II. p. 156.
" Cf. supra, p. 26; also infra, pp. 220-23, 258-61.
52 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
fine the unconscious as the totality of all psychic phenom-
ena that lack the quality of consciousness. These psychic
contents might fittingly be called "subliminal," on the as-
sumption that every psychic content must possess a certain
energy value in order to become conscious at all. The
lower the value of a conscious content falls, the more
easily it disappears below the threshold. From this it fol-
lows that the unconscious is the receptacle of all lost mem-
ories and of all contents that are still too weak to become
conscious. These contents arc products of an unconscious
associative activity which also gives rise to dreams. Be-
sides these we must include all more or less intentional
repressions of painful thoughts and feelings. I call the sum
of all these contents the "personal unconscious." But, over
and above that, we also find in the unconscious qualities
that are not individually acquired but are inherited, e.g.,
instincts as impulses to carry out actions from necessity,
without conscious motivation. In this "deeper" stratum we
also find the a priori, inborn forms of "intuition," namely
the archetypes 1 of perception and apprehension, which
are the necessary a priori determinants of all psychic proc-
esses. Just as his instincts compel man to a specifically
human mode of existence, so the archetypes force his ways
of perception and apprehension into specifically human
patterns. The instincts and the archetypes together form
the "collective unconscious." I call it "collective" because,
unlike the personal unconscious, it is not made up of in-
" [This is the first occasion on which Jung uses the term "archetype"
(Archetypus). Previously, in his publications, he had discussed the
same concept under the term "primordial image" (Urbihl), which
he derived from Burekhardt (cf. Symbols of Transformation [Col-
lected Works, Vol. 5], par. 45, n. 45; Two Essays on Analytical
Psychology [Collected Works, Vol. 7], par. 101). The primordial
image, be it observed, is here and elsewhere used as the equivalent
the archetype; ihis has given rise to some confusion and to the
belief thai Jung's theory of hereditary elements involves the inher-
itance of representations (ideas or images), a view against which
Jung repeatedly protests.— Editors of The Collected Works.] See
discussion supra, in Editor's Introduction, pp. xxxi-xxxiL— J C.
Instinct and the Unconscious : 53
dividual and more or less unique contents but of those
which are universal and of regular occurrence. Instinct is
an essentially collective, i.e., universal and regularly oc-
curring phenomenon which has nothing to do with in-
dividuality. Archetypes have this quality in common with
the instincts and are likewise collective phenomena.
In my view the question of instinct cannot be dealt with
psychologically without considering the archetypes, be-
cause at bottom they determine one another. It is, how-
ever, extremely difficult to discuss this problem, as opinions
about the role of instinct in human psychology are ex-
traordinarily divided. Thus William James is of the opinion
that man is swarming with instincts, while others restrict
them to a very few processes barely distinguishable from
reflexes, namely to certain movements executed by the
infant, to particular reactions of its arms and legs, of the
larynx, the use of the right hand, and the formation of
syllabized sounds. In my opinion, this restriction goes too
far, though it is very characteristic of human psychology
in general. Above all, we should always remember that in
discussing human instincts we are speaking of ourselves
and, therefore, are doubtless prejudiced.
We are in a far better position to observe instincts in
animals or in primitives than in ourselves. This is due to
the fact that we have grown accustomed to scrutinizing
our own actions and to seeking rational explanations for
them. But it is by no means certain that our explanations
will hold water, indeed it is highly unlikely. No super-
human intellect is needed to see through the shallowness
of many of our rationalizations and to detect the real
motive, the compelling instinct behind them. As a result
of our artificial rationalizations it may seem to us that we
were actuated not by instinct but by conscious motives.
Naturally I do not mean to say that by careful training
man has not succeeded in partially converting his instincts
into acts of the will. Instinct has been domesticated, but
the basic motive still remains instinct. There is no doubt
54 .* The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
that we have succeeded in enveloping a large number of
instincts in rational explanations to the point where we can
no longer recognize the original motive behind so many
veils. In this way it seems as though we possessed prac-
tically no instincts any more. But if we apply the Rivers
criterion of the disproportionate all-or-none reaction to
human behaviour, we find innumerable cases where ex-
aggerated reactions occur. Exaggeration, indeed, is a uni-
versal human peculiarity, although everybody carefully
tries to explain his reactions in terms of rational motives.
There is never any lack of good arguments, but the fact
of exaggeration remains. And why is it that a man does
not do or say, give or take, just as much as is needed, or
reasonable, or justifiable in a given situation, but frequently
so much more or less? Precisely because an unconscious
process is released in him that runs its course without the
aid of reason and therefore falls short of, or exceeds, the
degree of rational motivation. This phenomenon is so
uniform and so regular that we can only call it instinctive,
though no one in this situation likes to admit the instinctive
nature of his behaviour. I am therefore inclined to believe
that human behaviour is influenced by instinct to a far
higher degree than is generally supposed, and that we are
prone to a great many falsifications of judgment in this
respect, again as a result of an instinctive exaggeration of
the rationalistic standpoint.
Instincts are typical modes of action, and wherever we
meet with uniform and regularly recurring modes of action
and reaction we are dealing with instinct, no matter
whether it is associated with a conscious motive or not.
Just as it may be asked whether man possesses many
instincts or only a few, so we must also raise the still un-
broached question of whether he possesses many or few
primordial forms, or archetypes, of psychic reaction. Here
we are faced with the same difficulty I mentioned above:
we are so accustomed to operating with conventional and
self-evident concepts that we are no longer conscious of
Instinct and the Unconscious : 55
the extent to which they are based on archetypal modes of
perception. Like the instincts, the primordial images have
been obscured by the extraordinary differentiation of our
thinking. Just as certain biological views attribute only a
few instincts to man, so the theory of cognition reduces
the archetypes to a few, logically limited categories of
understanding.
In Plato, however, an extraordinarily high value is set
on the archetypes as metaphysical ideas, as "paradigms"
or models, while real things are held to be only the copies
of these model ideas. Medieval philosophy, from the time
of St. Augustine — from whom I have borrowed the idea
of the archetype 8 — down to Malebranche and Bacon, still
stands on a Platonic footing in this respect. But in scholas-
ticism we find the notion that archetypes are natural im-
ages engraved on the human mind, helping it to form its
judgments. Thus Herbert of Cherbury says: "Natural in-
stincts are expressions of those faculties which are found
in every normal man, through which the Common No-
tions touching the internal conformity of things, such as
the cause, means and purpose of things, the good, bad,
beautiful, pleasing, etc. ... are brought into conformity
independently of discursive thought." 9
From Descartes and Malebranche onward, the meta-
physical value of the "idea" or archetype steadily dete-
riorated. It became a "thought," an internal condition of
cognition, as clearly formulated by Spinoza: "By 'idea' 1
understand a conception of the mind which the mind forms
by reason of its being a thinking thing." 10 Finally Kant
reduced the archetypes to a limited number of categories
of understanding. Schopenhauer carried the process of
8 The actual term "archetype," however, is to be found in Dionysius
the Areopagite and in the Corpus Heimcticum.
u Edward, Baron Herbert of Cherbury, De vciitate, originally pub-
lished 1624, translated by Meyrick H. Carre, University of Bristol
Studies, 6 (Bristol, 1937), p. 122.
'" Cf. Benedict Spinoza, Ethics, translated by Andrew Boyle (London
and New York, 1934, Everyman's Library), p. 37.
56 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
simplification still further, while at the same time endow-
ing the archetypes with an almost Platonic significance.
In this all-too-summary sketch we can see once again
that same psychological process at work which disguises
the instincts under the cloak of rational motivations and
transforms the archetypes into rational concepts, It is
hardly possible to recognize the archetype under this guise.
And yet the way in which man inwardly pictures the world
is still, despite all differences of detail, as uniform and as
regular as his instinctive actions. Just as we have been
compelled to postulate the concept of an instinct deter-
mining or regulating our conscious actions, so, in order
to account for the uniformity and regularity of our per-
ceptions, we must have recourse to the correlated concept
of a factor determining the mode of apprehension. It is
this factor which I call the archetype or primordial image.
The primordial image might suitably be described as the
instinct's perception of itself, or as the self-portrait of the
instinct, in exactly the same way as consciousness is an
inward perception of the objective life-process. Just as
conscious apprehension gives our actions form and direc-
tion, so unconscious apprehension through the archetype
determines the form and direction of instinct. If we call
instinct "refined," then the "intuition" which brings the
instinct into play, in other words the apprehension by
means of the archetype, must be something incredibly
precise. Thus the yucca moth must carry within it an im-
age, as it were, of the situation that "triggers off" its in-
stinct. This image enables it to "recognize" the yucca flower
and its structure.
The criterion of the all-or-none reaction proposed by
Rivers has helped us to discover the operation of instinct
everywhere in human psychology, and it may be that the
concept of the primordial image will perform a similar
service with regard to acts of intuitive apprehension. In-
tuitional activity can be observed most easily among primi-
tives. There we constantly meet with certain typical images
Instinct and the Unconscious : 57
and motifs which are the foundations of their mythologies.
These images are autochthonous and occur with great
regularity; everywhere we find the idea of a magic power
or substance, of spirits and their doings, of heroes and
gods and their legends. In the great religions of the world
we sec the perfection of those images and at the same time
their progressive incrustation with rational forms. They
even appear in the exact sciences, as the foundation of
certain indispensable auxiliary concepts such as energy,
ether, and the atom. 11 In philosophy, Bergson affords an
example of the revival of a primordial image with his con-
ception of "duree creatrice," which can be fcand in Proclus
and, in its original form, in Hcraclitus.
Analytical psychology is daily concerned, in the normal
and sick alike, with disturbances of conscious apprehen-
sion caused by the admixture of archetypal images. The
exaggerated actions due to the interference of instinct are
caused by intuitive modes of apprehension actuated by
archetypes and all too likely to lead to over-intense and
often distorted impressions.
Archetypes are typical modes of apprehension, and
wherever we meet with uniform and regularly recurring
modes of apprehension we are dealing with an archetype,
no matter whether its mythological character is recognized
or not.
The collective unconscious consists of the sum of the
instincts and their correlates, the archetypes. Just as every-
body possesses instincts, so he also possesses a stock of
archetypal images. The most striking proof of this is the
psychopathology of mental disturbances that are character-
ized by an irruption of the collective unconscious. Such is
the case in schizophrenia; here we can often observe the
11 Like the now obsolete concept of ether, energy and the atom are
primitive intuitions. A primitive form of the one is mana, and of
the other the atom of Dcmociilus and the "soul-sparks" of the
Australian aborigines. [Cf. Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
(Collected Works, Vol. 7), pars. io8f. — Editors of The Collected
Works.]
5<S : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
emergence of archaic impulses in conjunction with unmis-
takable mythological images.
In my view it is impossible to say which comes first —
apprehension of the situation, or the impulse to act. It
seems to me that both are aspects of the same vital activity,
which we have to think of as two distinct processes simply
for the purpose of better understanding. 12
12 In the course of my life I have often reflected on the theme of
this short essay, and the conclusions I have come to are set down in
a paper entitled "On the Nature of the Psyche" [in The Structure
and Dynamics of the Psyche (Collected Works, Vol. 8), pars.
3431T.1, where the problem of instinct and archetype in its later
developments is dealt with in considerable detail. The biological
side of the problem is discussed in Alverdes, "Die Wirksamkeit von
Archetypen in den Instinkthandlungen der Tiere," Zootogischer
Anieiger (Leipzig), CXIX: 9/10 (1937), 225-36.
M4M
The Concept of the
Collective Unconscious 1
Probably none of my empirical concepts has met with so
much misunderstanding as the idea of the collective un-
conscious. In what follows I shall try to give (i) a defini-
tion of the concept, (2) a description of what it means for
psychology, (3) an explanation of the method of proof,
and (4) an example. 2
1. Definition
The collective unconscious is a part of the psyche which
can be negatively distinguished from a personal uncon-
scious by the fact that it does not, like the latter, owe its
existence to personal experience and consequently is not
1 From The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious. Collected
Works, Vol. 9.i, pars. 87-110. [Originally given as a lecture to the
Aberneihian Society at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, London, on
Oct. 19, 1936, and published in the hospital's Journal, XLIV (1936/
37), 46-49. 64-66. The present version has been slighly revised by
the author and edited in terminology. — Editors of The Collected
Works.]
2 The example will here be omitted, since it is again that reported
supra, p. 36, of the man who saw the phallus of the sun. — J.C.
59
60 : The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious
a personal acquisition. While the personal unconscious is
made up essentially of contents which have at one time
been conscious but which have disappeared from conscious-
ness through having been forgotten or repressed, the con-
tents of the collective unconscious have never been in
consciousness, and therefore have never been individually
acquired, but owe their existence exclusively to heredity.
Whereas the personal unconscious consists for the most
part of complexes, the content of the collective uncon-
scious is made up essentially of archetypes.
The concept of the archetype, which is an indispensable
correlate of the idea of the collective unconscious, indicates
the existence of definite forms in the psyche which seem to
be present always and everywhere. Mythological research
calls them "motifs"; in the psychology of primitives they
correspond to Levy-Bruhl's concept of "representations
collectives," and in the field of comparative religion they
have been defined by Hubert and Mauss as "categories of
the imagination." Adolf Bastian long ago called them "ele-
mentary" or "primordial thoughts." From these references
it should be clear enough that my idea of the archetype —
literally a pre-existent form — does not stand alone but is
something that is recognized and named in other fields of
knowledge.
My thesis, then, is as follows: In addition to our im-
mediate consciousness, which is of a thoroughly personal
nature and which we believe to be the only empirical
psyche (even if we tack on the personal unconscious as
an appendix), there exists a second psychic system of a
collective, universal, and impersonal nature which is iden-
tical in all individuals. This collective unconscious does
not develop individually but is inherited. It consists of pre-
existent forms, the archetypes, which can only become
conscious secondarily and which give definite form to cer-
tain psychic contents.
The Concept of the Collective Unconscious : 61
2. The Psychological Meaning of the
Collective Unconscious
Medical psychology, growing as it did out of profes-
sional practice, insists on the personal nature of the psyche.
By this I mean the views of Freud and Adler. It is a psy-
chology of the person, and its aetiological or causal factors
are regarded almost wholly as personal in nature. None-
theless, even this psychology is based on certain general
biological factors, for instance on the sexual instinct or
on the urge for self-assertion, which are by no means
merely personal peculiarities. It is forced to do this because
it lays claim to being an explanatory science. Neither of
these views would deny the existence of a priori instincts
common to man and animals alike, or that they have a
significant influence on personal psychology. Yet instincts
are impersonal, universally distributed, hereditary factors
of a dynamic or motivating character, which very often
fail so completely to reach consciousness that modern psy-
chotherapy is faced with the task of helping the patient to
become conscious of them. Moreover, the instincts are not
vague and indefinite by nature, but are specifically formed
motive forces which, long before there is any conscious-
ness, and in spite of any degree of consciousness later on,
pursue their inherent goals. Consequently they form very
close analogies to the archetypes, so close, in fact, that
there is good reason for supposing that the archetypes are
the unconscious images of the instincts themselves, in
other words, that they are patterns of instinctual behaviour.
The hypothesis of the collective unconscious is, there-
fore, no more daring than to assume there are instincts.
One admits readily that human activity is influenced to a
high degree by instincts, quite apart from the rational
motivations of the conscious mind. So if the assertion is
made that our imagination, perception, and thinking are
likewise influenced by inborn and universally present for-
62 t The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious
mal elements, it seems to me that a normally functioning
intelligence can discover in this idea just as much or just
as little mysticism as in the theory of instincts. Although
this reproach of mysticism has frequently been levelled at
my concept, I must emphasize yet again that the concept
of the collective unconscious is neither a speculative nor a
philosophical but an empirical matter. The question is
simply this: are there or are there not unconscious, uni-
versal forms of this kind? If they exist, then there is a
region of the psyche which one can call the collective un-
conscious. It is true that the diagnosis of the collective
unconscious is not always an easy task. It is not sufficient
to point out the often obviously archetypal nature of un-
conscious products, for these can just as well be derived
from acquisitions through language and education. Cryp-
tomnesia should also be ruled out, which it is almost im-
possible to do in certain cases. In spite of all these dif-
ficulties, there remain enough individual instances showing
the autochthonous revival of mythological motifs to put
the matter beyond any reasonable doubt. But if such an
unconscious exists at all, psychological explanation must
take account of it and submit certain alleged personal
aetiologies to sharper criticism.
What I mean can perhaps best be made clear by a con-
crete example. You have probably read Freud's discussion 3
of a certain picture by Leonardo da Vinci: St. Anne with
the Virgin Mary and the Christ-child. Freud interprets this
remarkable picture in terms of the fact that Leonardo
himself had two mothers. This causality is personal. We
shall not linger over the fact that this picture is far from
unique, nor over the minor inaccuracy that St. Anne hap-
pens to be the grandmother of Christ and not, as required
by Freud's interpretation, the mother, but shall simply
point out that interwoven with the apparently personal
3 Leonardo da Vinci and a Memory of His Childhood, sec. IV.
Translated by Alan Tyson in Sigmund Freud, Standard Edition of
the Complete Psychological Works, II (London, 1957)
The Concept of the Collective Unconscious : 63
psychology there is an impersonal motif well known to us
from other fields. This is the motif of the dual mother,
an archetype to be found in many variants in the field of
mythology and comparative religion and forming the basis
of numerous "representations collectives." I might men-
tion, for instance, the motif of the dual descent, that is,
descent from human and divine parents, as in the case of
Heracles, who received immortality through being un-
wittingly adopted by Hera. What was a myth in Greece
was actually a ritual in Egypt: Pharaoh was both human
and divine by nature. In the birth chambers of the Egyp-
tian temples Pharaoh's second, divine conception and birth
is depicted on the walls; he is "twice-born." It is an idea
that underlies all rebirth mysteries, Christianity included.
Christ himself is "twice-born": through his baptism in the
Jordan he was regenerated and reborn from water and
spirit. Consequently, in the Roman liturgy the font is
designated the "uterus ecclesiae," and, as you can read in
the Roman missal, it is called this even today, in the
"benediction of the font" on Holy Saturday before Easter.
Further, according to an early Christian-Gnostic idea, the
spirit which appeared in the form of a dove was inter-
preted as Sophia-Sapientia — Wisdom and the Mother of
Christ. Thanks to this motif of the dual birth, children
today, instead of having good and evil fairies who mag-
ically "adopt" them at birth with blessings or curses, are
given sponsors — a "godfather" and a "godmother."
The idea of a second birth is found at all times and in
all places. In the earliest beginnings of medicine it was a
magical means of healing; in many religions it is the cen-
tral mystical experience; it is the key idea in medieval,
occult philosophy, and, last but not least, it is an infantile
fantasy occurring in numberless children, large and small,
who believe that their parents are not their real parents but
merely foster-parents to whom they were handed over.
Benvenuto Cellini also had this idea, as he himself relates
in his autobiography.
64 : The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious
Now it is absolutely out of the question that all the in-
dividuals who believe in a dual descent have in reality
always had two mothers, or conversely that those few who
shared Leonardo's fate have infected the rest of humanity
with their complex. Rather, one cannot avoid the assump-
tion that the universal occurrence of the dual-birth motif
together with the fantasy of the two mothers answers an
omnipresent human need which is reflected in these motifs.
If Leonardo da Vinci did in fact portray his two mothers
in St. Anne and Mary — which I doubt — he nonetheless was
only expressing something which countless millions of peo-
ple before and after him have believed. The vulture symbol
(which Freud also discusses in the work mentioned) makes
this view all the more plausible. With some justification he
quotes as the source of the symbol the Hieroglyphica of
Horapollo, a book much in use in Leonardo's time. There
you read that vultures are female only and symbolize the
mother. They conceive through the wind (pneuma). This
word took on the meaning of "spirit" chiefly under the
influence of Christianity. Even in the account of the mir-
acle at Pentecost the pneuma still has the double meaning
of wind and spirit. This fact, in my opinion, points with-
out doubt to Mary, who, a virgin by nature, conceived
through the pneuma, like a vulture. Furthermore, accord-
ing to Horapollo, the vulture also symbolizes Athene, who
sprang, unbegotten, directly from the head of Zeus, was
a virgin, and knew only spiritual motherhood. All this is
really an allusion to Mary and the rebirth motif. There
is not a shadow of evidence that Leonardo meant any-
thing else by his picture. Even if it is correct to assume that
he identified himself with the Christ-child, he was in all
probability representing the mythological dual-mother motif
and by no means his own personal prehistory. And what
about all the other artists who painted the same theme?
Surely not all of them had two mothers?
Let us now transpose Leonardo's case to the field of the
neuroses, and assume that a patient with a mother complex
The Concept of the Collective Unconscious : 65
is suffering from the delusion that the cause of his neu-
rosis lies in his having really had two mothers. The personal
interpretation would have to admit that he is right — and
yet it would be quite wrong. For in reality the cause of
his neurosis would lie in the reactivation of the dual-
mother archetype, quite regardless of whether he had one
mother or two mothers, because, as we have seen, this
archetype functions individually and historically without
any reference to the relatively rare occurrence of dual
motherhood.
In such a case, it is of course tempting to presuppose so
simple and personal a cause, yet the hypothesis is not only
inexact but totally false. It is admittedly difficult to under-
stand how a dual-mother motif — unknown to a physician
trained only in medicine — could have so great a determining
power as to produce the effect of a traumatic condition.
But if we consider the tremendous powers that lie hidden
in the mythological and religious sphere in man, the aetio-
logical significance of the archetype appears less fantastic.
In numerous cases of neurosis the cause of the disturbance
lies in the very fact that the psychic life of the patient
lacks the co-operation of these motive forces. Nevertheless
a purely personalistic psychology, by reducing everything
to personal causes, tries its level best to deny the existence
of archetypal motifs and even seeks to destroy them by per-
sonal analysis. I consider this a rather dangerous procedure
which cannot be justified medically. Today you can judge
better than you could twenty years ago the nature of the
forces involved. Can we not see how a whole nation is
reviving an archaic symbol, yes, even archaic religious
forms, and how this mass emotion is influencing and rev-
olutionizing the life of the individual in a catastrophic
manner? 4 The man of the past is alive in us today to a
degree undreamt of before the war, and in the last analysis
what is the fate of great nations but a summation of the
psychic changes in individuals?
4 The reference, of course, is to Hitler's Germany. — J.C.
66 : The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious
So far as a neurosis is really only a private affair, hav-
ing its roots exclusively in personal causes, archetypes play
no role at all. But if it is a question of a general incompati-
bility or an otherwise injurious condition productive of
neuroses in relatively large numbers of individuals, then
we must assume the presence of constellated archetypes.
Since neuroses are in most cases not just private concerns,
but social phenomena, we must assume that archetypes are
constellated in these cases too. The archetype correspond-
ing to the situation is activated, and as a result those ex-
plosive and dangerous forces hidden in the archetype come
into action, frequently with unpredictable consequences.
There is no lunacy people under the domination of an
archetype will not fall a prey to. If thirty years ago anyone
had dared to predict that our psychological development
was tending towards a revival of the medieval persecutions
of the Jews, that Europe would again tremble before the
Roman fasces and the tramp of legions, that people would
once more give the Roman salute, as two thousand years
ago, and that instead of the Christian Cross an archaic
swastika would lure onward millions of warriors ready for
death — why, that man would have been hooted at as a
mystical fool. And today? Surprising as it may seem, all
this absurdity is a horrible reality. Private life, private
aetiologies, and private neuroses have become almost a
fiction in the world of today. The man of the past who
lived in a world of archaic "representations collectives" has
risen again into very visible and painfully real life, and
this not only in a few unbalanced individuals but in many
millions of people.
There are as many archetypes as there are typical situa-
tions in life. Endless repetition has engraved these expe-
riences into our psychic constitution, not in the form of
images filled with content, but at first only as forms with-
out content, representing merely the possibility of a certain
type of perception and action. When a situation occurs
which corresponds to a given archetype, that archetype
The Concept of the Collective Unconscious : 67
becomes activated and a compulsiveness appears, which,
like an instinctual drive, gains its way against all reason
and will, or else produces a conflict of pathological dimen-
sions, that is to say, a neurosis.
3. Method of Proof
We must now turn to the question of how the existence
of archetypes can be proved. Since archetypes are supposed
to produce certain psychic forms, we must discuss how
and where one can get hold of the material demonstrating
these forms. The main source, then, is dreams, which have
the advantage of being involuntary, spontaneous products
of the unconscious psyche and are therefore pure products
of nature not falsified by any conscious purpose. By ques-
tioning the individual one can ascertain which of the
motifs appearing in the dream are known to him. From
those which are unknown to him we must naturally exclude
all motifs which might be known to him, as for instance —
to revert to the case of Leonardo — the vulture symbol.
We are not sure whether Leonardo took this symbol from
Horapollo or not, although it would have been perfectly
possible for an educated person of that time, because in
those days artists were distinguished for their wide knowl-
edge of the humanities. Therefore, although the bird motif
is an archetype par excellence, its existence in Leonardo's
fantasy would still prove nothing. Consequently, we must
look for motifs which could not possibly be known to the
dreamer and yet behave functionally in his dream in such
a manner as to coincide with the functioning of the arche-
type known from historical sources.
Another source for the material we need is to be found
in "active imagination/' By this I mean a sequence of
fantasies produced by deliberate concentration. 1 have
found that the existence of unrealized, unconscious fan-
tasies increases the frequency and intensity of dreams,
68 : The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious
and that when these fantasies are made conscious the
dreams change their character and become weaker and less
frequent. From this I have drawn the conclusion that
dreams often contain fantasies which "want" to become
conscious. The sources of dreams are often repressed in-
stincts which have a natural tendency to influence the
conscious mind. In cases of this sort, the patient is simply
given the task of contemplating any one fragment of fan-
tasy that seems significant to him — a chance idea, perhaps,
or something he has become conscious of in a dream —
until its context becomes visible, that is to say, the relevant
associative material in which it is embedded. It is not a
question of the "free association" recommended by Freud
for the purpose of dream-analysis, but of elaborating the
fantasy by observing the further fantasy material that adds
itself to the fragment in a natural manner.
This is not the place to enter upon a technical discussion
of the method. Suffice it to say that the resultant sequence
of fantasies relieves the unconscious and produces material
rich in archetypal images and associations. Obviously, this
is a method that can only be used in certain carefully
selected cases. The method is not entirely without danger,
because it may carry the patient too far away from reality.
A warning against thoughtless application is therefore in
place.
Finally, very interesting sources of archetypal material
are to be found in the delusions of paranoiacs, the fantasies
observed in trance-states, and the dreams of early child-
hood, from the third to the fifth year. Such material is
available in profusion, but it is valueless unless one can
adduce convincing mythological parallels. It does not, of
course, suffice simply to connect a dream about a snake
with the mythological occurrence of snakes, for who is to
guarantee that the functional meaning of the snake in the
dream is the same as in the mythological setting? In order
to draw a valid parallel, it is necessary to know the func-
tional meaning of the individual symbol, and then to find
The Concept of the Collective Unconscious : 69
out whether the apparently parallel mythological symbol
has a similar context and therefore the same functional
meaning. Establishing such facts not only requires lengthy
and wearisome researches, but is also an ungrateful subject
for demonstration. As the symbols must not be torn out
of their context, one has to launch forth into exhaustive de-
scriptions, personal as well as symbological, and this is
practically impossible in the framework of a lecture. I
have repeatedly tried it at the risk of sending one half of
my audience to sleep.
4. An Example
[The example given is again that of the paranoid schizo-
phrenic who thought he saw the phallus of the sun. Supra,
p. 36.]
M5M
The Relations Between the
Ego and the Unconscious 1
Part One
The Effects of the Unconscious
upon Consciousness
I
The Personal and the Collective
Unconscious
In Freud's view, as most people know, the contents of the
unconscious are reducible to infantile tendencies which
are repressed because of their incompatible character.
Repression is a process that begins in early childhood under
the moral influence of the environment and continues
throughout life. By means of analysis the repressions are
removed and the repressed wishes made conscious.
According to this theory, the unconscious contains
only those parts of the personality which could just as
well be conscious, and have been suppressed only through
1 From Two Essays on Analytical Psychology. Collected Works,
Vol. 7, Second Essay, pars. 202-295; translated from Die Bezie-
hungen zwischen clem Ich unci dem Unbewussten (2nd ed.; 1928,
1935), published by Rascher Verlag, Zurich.
70
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 7/
the process of education. Although from one point of
view the infantile tendencies of the unconscious are the
most conspicuous, it would nonetheless be a mistake to
define or evaluate the unconscious entirely in these terms.
The unconscious has still another side to it: it includes
not only repressed contents, but all psychic material that
lies below the threshold of consciousness. It is impossible
to explain the subliminal nature of all this material on the
principle of repression, for in that case the removal of
repression ought to endow a person with a prodigious mem-
ory which would thenceforth forget nothing.
We therefore emphatically affirm that in addition to the
repressed material the unconscious contains all those psy-
chic components that have fallen below the threshold, as
well as subliminal sense-perceptions. Moreover we know,
from abundant experience as well as for theoretical reasons,
that the unconscious also contains all the material that has
not yet reached the threshold of consciousness. These are
the seeds of future conscious contents. Equally we have
reason to suppose that the unconscious is never quiescent
in the sense of being inactive, but is ceaselessly engaged
in grouping and regrouping its contents. This activity
should be thought of as completely autonomous only in
pathological cases; normally it is co-ordinated with the
conscious mind in a compensatory relationship.
It is to be assumed that all these contents are of a per-
sonal nature in so far as they are acquired during the in-
dividual's life. Since this life is limited, the number of
acquired contents in the unconscious must also be limited.
This being so, it might be thought possible to empty the
unconscious either by analysis or by making a complete
inventory of the unconscious contents, on the ground that
the unconscious cannot produce anything more than what
is already known and assimilated into consciousness. We
should also have to suppose, as already said, that if one
could arrest the descent of conscious contents into the un-
conscious by doing away with repression, unconscious
y 2 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
productivity would be paralyzed. This is possible only to
a very limited extent, as we know from experience. We
urge our patients to hold fast to repressed contents that
have been re-associated with consciousness, and to assimi-
late them into their plan of life. But this procedure, as
we may daily convince ourselves, makes no impression
on the unconscious, since it calmly goes on producing
dreams and fantasies which, according to Freud's original
theory, must arise from personal repressions. If in such
cases we pursue our observations systematically and with-
out prejudice, we shall find material which, although simi-
lar in form to the previous personal contents, yet seems to
contain allusions that go far beyond the personal sphere.
Casting about in my mind for an example to illustrate
what I have just said, I have a particularly vivid memory
of a woman patient with a mild hysterical neurosis which,
as we expressed it in those days [about 19 10], had its
principal cause in a "father-complex." By this we wanted
to denote the fact that the patient's peculiar relationship to
her father stood in her way. She had been on very good
terms with her father, who had since died. It was a rela-
tionship chiefly of feeling. In such cases it is usually the
intellectual function that is developed,' and this later be-
comes the bridge to the world. Accordingly our patient be-
came a student of philosophy. Her energetic pursuit of
knowledge was motivated by her need to extricate herself
from the emotional entanglement with her father. This
operation may succeed if her feelings can find an outlet
on the new intellectual level, perhaps in the formation of
an emotional tie with a suitable man, equivalent to the
former tie. In this particular case, however, the transition
refused to take place, because the patient's feelings re-
mained suspended, oscillating between her father and a
man who was not altogether suitable. The progress of her
life was thus held up, and that inner disunity so characteris-
tic of a neurosis promptly made its appearance. The so-
called normal person would probably be able to break the
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 73
emotional bond in one or the other direction by a power-
ful act of will, or else — and this is perhaps the more usual
thing — he would come through the difficulty unconsciously,
on the smooth path of instinct, without ever being aware
of the sort of conflict that lay behind his headaches or
other physical discomforts. But any weakness of instinct
(which may have many causes) is enough to hinder a
smooth unconscious transition. Then all progress is delayed
by conflict, and the resulting stasis of life is equivalent to
a neurosis. In consequence of the standstill, psychic energy
flows off in every conceivable direction, apparently quite
uselessly. For instance, there are excessive innervations
of the sympathetic system, which lead to nervous disorders
of the stomach and intestines; or the vagus (and con-
sequently the heart) is stimulated; or fantasies and mem-
ories, uninteresting enough in themselves, become over-
valued and prey on the conscious mind (mountains out
of molehills). In this state a new motive is needed to put
an end to the morbid suspension. Nature herself paves the
way for this, unconsciously and indirectly, through the
phenomenon of the transference (Freud). In the course
of treatment the patient transfers the father-imago to the
doctor, thus making him, in a sense, the father, and in the
sense that he is not the father, also making him a sub-
stitute for the man she cannot reach. The doctor therefore
becomes both a father and a kind of lover — in other words,
an object of conflict. In him the opposites are united, and
for this reason he stands for a quasi-ideal solution of the
conflict. Without in the least wishing it he draws upon him-
self an over-valuation that is almost incredible to the out-
sider, for to the patient he seems like a saviour or a god.
This way of speaking is not altogether so laughable as it
sounds. It is indeed a bit much to be a father and lover
at once. Nobody could possibly stand up to it in the long
run, precisely because it is too much of a good thing. One
would have to be a demigod at least to sustain such a role
without a break, for all the time one would have to be
74 ' T™° Essays on Analytical Psychology
the giver. To the patient in the state of transference, this
provisional solution naturally seems ideal, but only at first;
in the end she comes to a standstill that is just as bad as
the neurotic conflict was. Fundamentally, nothing has yet
happened that might lead to a real solution. The conflict
has merely been transferred. Nevertheless a successful
transference can — at least temporarily — cause the whole
neurosis to disappear, and for this reason it has been very
rightly recognized by Freud as a healing factor of first-rate
importance, but, at the same time, as a provisional state
only, for although it holds out the possibility of a cure, it
is far from being the cure itself.
This somewhat lengthy discussion seemed to me essential
if my example was to be understood, for my patient had
arrived at the state of transference and had already reached
the upper limit where the standstill begins to make itself
disagreeable. The question now arose: what next? I had
of course become the complete saviour, and the thought of
having to give me up was not only exceedingly distasteful
to the patient, but positively terrifying. In such a situation
"sound common sense" generally comes out with a whole
repertory of admonitions: "you simply must," "you really
ought," "you just cannot," etc. So far as sound common
sense is, happily, not too rare and not entirely without
effect (pessimists, I know, exist), a rational motive can,
in the exuberant feeling of buoyancy you get from the
transference, release so much enthusiasm that a painful
sacrifice can be risked with a mighty effort of will. If suc-
cesslul — and these things sometimes are — the sacrifice
bears blessed fruit, and the erstwhile patient leaps at one
bound into the state of being practically cured. The doctor
is generally so delighted that he fails to tackle the theoreti-
cal difficulties connected with this little miracle.
II the leap docs not succeed — and it did not succeed
with my patient— one is then faced with the problem of
resolving the transference. Here "psychoanalytic" theory
shrouds itself in a thick darkness. Apparently we are to
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 75
fall back on some nebulous trust in fate: somehow or
other the matter will settle itself. "The transference stops
automatically when the patient runs out of money," as a
slightly cynical colleague once remarked to me. Or the
ineluctable demands of life make it impossible for the pa-
tient to linger on in the transference — demands which
compel the involuntary sacrifice, sometimes with a more or
less complete relapse as a result. (One may look in vain
for accounts of such cases in the books that sing the praises
of psychoanalysis!)
To be sure, there are hopeless cases. where nothing helps;
but there are also cases that do not get stuck and do not
inevitably leave the transference situation with bitter hearts
and sore heads. I told myself, at this juncture with my
patient, that there must be a clear and respectable way
out of the impasse. My patient had long since run out of
money — if indeed she ever possessed any — but I was curi-
ous to know what means nature would devise for a satis-
factory way out of the transference deadlock. Since I
never imagined that I was blessed with that "sound com-
mon sense" which always knows exactly what to do in
every quandary, and since my patient knew as little as I,
I suggested to her that we could at least keep an eye open
for any movements coming from a sphere of the psyche un-
contaminated by our superior wisdom and our conscious
plannings. That meant first and foremost her dreams.
Dreams contain images and thought-associations which
we do not create with conscious intent. They arise spon-
taneously without our assistance and are representatives of
a psychic activity withdrawn from our arbitrary will.
Therefore the dream is, properly speaking, a highly ob-
jective, natural product of the psyche, from which we
might expect indications, or at least hints, about certain
basic trends in the psychic process. Now, since the psychic
process, like any other life-process, is not just a causal
sequence, but is also a process with a telcological orienta-
tion, we might expect dreams to give us certain indicia
y6 ; Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
about the objective causality as well as about the objective
tendencies, precisely because dreams are nothing less than
self-representations of the psychic life-process.
On the basis of these reflections, then, we subjected the
dreams to a careful examination. It would lead too far to
quote word for word all the dreams that now followed.
Let it suffice to sketch their main character: the majority
referred to the person of the doctor, that is to say, the
actors were unmistakably the dreamer herself and her
doctor. The latter, however, seldom appeared in his nat-
ural shape, but was generally distorted in a remarkable
way. Sometimes his figure was of supernatural size, some-
times he seemed to be extremely aged, then again he resem-
bled her father, but was at the same time curiously woven
into nature, as in the following dream: Her father (who
in reality was of small stature) was standing with her on
a hill that was covered with wheat-fields. She was quite
tiny beside him, and he seemed to her like a giant. He
lifted her up from the ground and held her in his arms like
a little child. The wind swept over the wheat-fields, and as
the wheat swayed in the wind, he rocked her in his arms.
From this dream and from others like it I could discern
various things. Above all I got the impression that her
unconscious was holding unshakably to the idea of my
being the father-lover, so that the fatal tie we were trying
to undo appeared to be doubly strengthened. Moreover
one could hardly avoid seeing that the unconscious placed
a special emphasis on the supernatural, almost "divine"
nature of the father-lover, thus accentuating still further
the over-valuation occasioned by the transference. I there-
fore asked myself whether the patient had still not under-
stood the wholly fantastic character of her transference,
or whether perhaps the unconscious could never be
reached by understanding at all, but must blindly and
idiotically pursue some nonsensical chimera. Freud's idea
that the unconscious can "do nothing but wish," Schopen-
hauer's blind and aimless Will, the gnostic demiurge who
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 77
in his vanity deems himself perfect and then in the blind-
ness of his limitation creates something lamentably im-
perfect — all these pessimistic suspicions of an essentially
negative background to the world and the soul came threat-
eningly near. And there would indeed be nothing to set
against this except a well-meaning "you ought," reinforced
by a stroke of the axe that would cut down the whole
phantasmagoria for good and all.
But, as I turned the dreams over and over in my mind,
there dawned on me another possibility. I said to myself: it
cannot be denied that the dreams continue to speak in the
same old metaphors with which our conversations have
made the patient as well as myself sickeningly familiar.
But the patient has an undoubted understanding of her
transference fantasy. She knows that 1 appear to her as
a semi-divine father-lover, and she can, at least intellec-
tually, distinguish this from my factual reality. Therefore
the dreams are obviously reiterating the conscious stand-
point minus the conscious criticism, which they completely
ignore. They reiterate the conscious contents, not in toto,
but insist on the fantastic standpoint as opposed to "sound
common sense."
I naturally asked myself what was the source of this
obstinacy and what was its purpose? That it must have
some purposive meaning I was convinced, for there is no
truly living thing that does not have a final meaning, that
can in other words be explained as a mere left-over from
antecedent facts. But the energy of the transference is so
strong that it gives one the impression of a vital instinct.
That being so, what is the purpose of such fantasies? A
careful examination and analysis of the dreams, especially
of the one just quoted, revealed a very marked tendency
— in contrast to conscious criticism, which always seeks
to reduce things to human proportions — to endow the
person of the doctor with superhuman attributes. He had
to be gigantic, primordial, hugcr than the father, like the
wind that sweeps over the earth — was he then to be made
y8 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
into a god? Or, I said to myself, was it rather the case
that the unconscious was trying to create a god out of
the person of the doctor, as it were to free a vision of God
from the veils of the personal, so that the transference to
the person of the doctor was no more than a misunder-
standing on the part of the conscious mind, a stupid trick
played by "sound common sense"? Was the urge of the
unconscious perhaps only apparently reaching out towards
the person, but in a deeper sense towards a god? Could
the longing for a god be a passion welling up from our
darkest, instinctual nature, a passion unswayed by any
outside influences, deeper and stronger perhaps than the
love for a human person? Or was it perhaps the highest
and truest meaning of that inappropriate love we call
"transference," a little bit of real Gottesminne, that has
been lost to consciousness ever since the fifteenth century?
No one will doubt the reality of a passionate longing for
a human person; but that a fragment of religious psy-
chology, an historical anachronism, indeed something of
a medieval curiosity — we are reminded of Mechtild of
Magdeburg — should come to light as an immediate living
reality in the middle of the consulting-room, and be ex-
pressed in the prosaic figure of the doctor, seems almost
too fantastic to be taken seriously.
A genuinely scientific attitude must be unprejudiced. The
sole criterion for the validity of an hypothesis is whether
or not it possesses an heuristic — i.e., explanatory — value.
The question now is, can we regard the possibilities set
forth above as a valid hypothesis? There is no a priori
reason why it should not be just as possible that the un-
conscious tendencies have a goal beyond the human person,
as that the unconscious can "do nothing but wish." Ex-
perience alone can decide which is the more suitable hy-
pothesis. This new hypothesis was not entirely plausible to
my very critical patient. The earlier view that I was the
father-lover, and as such presented an ideal solution of the
conflict, was incomparably more attractive to her way of
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 79
feeling. Nevertheless her intellect was sufficiently keen to
appreciate the theoretical possibility of the new hypothesis.
Meanwhile the dreams continued to disintegrate the person
of the doctor and swell him to ever vaster proportions. Con-
currently with this there now occurred something which at
first I alone perceived, and with the utmost astonishment,
namely a kind of subterranean undermining of the transfer-
ence. Her relations with a certain friend deepened percepti-
bly, notwithstanding the fact that consciously she still clung
to the transference. So that when the time came for leav-
ing me, it was no catastrophe, but a perfectly reasonable
parting. I had the privilege of being the only witness during
the process of severance. I saw how the transpersonal con-
trol-point developed — I cannot call it anything else — a
guiding function and step by step gathered to itself all the
former personal over-valuations; how, with this afflux of
energy, it gained influence over the resisting conscious mind
without the patient's consciously noticing what was hap-
pening. From this I realized that the dreams were not just
fantasies, but self-representations of unconscious devel-
opments which allowed the psyche of the patient gradually
to grow out of the pointless personal tie.
This change took place, as I showed, through the un-
conscious development of a transpersonal control-point;
a virtual goal, as it were, that expressed itself symbolically
in a form which can only be described as a vision of God.
The dreams swelled the human person of the doctor to
superhuman proportions, making him a gigantic primordial
father who is at the same time the wind, and in whose
protecting arms the dreamer rests like an infant. If we
try to make the patient's conscious, and traditionally
Christian, idea of God responsible for the divine image
in the dreams, we would still have to lay stress on the
distortion. In religious matters the patient had a critical
and agnostic attitude, and her idea of a possible deity had
long since passed into the realm of the inconceivable, i.e.,
had dwindled into a complete abstraction. In contrast to
80 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
this, the god-image of the dreams corresponded to the
archaic conception of a nature-daemon, something like
Wotan. 0eo<? to irvevfia, "God is spirit," is here translated
back into its original form where irvevfxa means "wind":
God is the wind, stronger and mightier than man, an in-
visible breath-spirit. As in Hebrew ruah, so in Arabic ruh
means breath and spirit. 2 Out of the purely personal form
the dreams develop an archaic god-image that is infinitely
far from the conscious idea of God. It might be objected
that this is simply an infantile image, a childhood memory.
I would have no quarrel with this assumption if we were
dealing with an old man sitting on a golden throne in
heaven. But there is no trace of any sentimentality of that
kind; instead, we have a primordial idea that can corre-
spond only to an archaic mentality.
These primordial ideas, of which I have given a great
many examples in my Symbols of Transformation , oblige
one to make, in regard to unconscious material, a distinc-
tion of quite a different character from that between "pre-
conscious" and "unconscious" or "subconscious" and "un-
conscious." The justification for these distinctions need
not be discussed here. They have their specific value and
are worth elaborating further as points of view. The funda-
mental distinction which experience has forced upon me
claims to be no more than that. It should be evident from
the foregoing that we have to distinguish in the uncon-
scious a layer which we may call the personal unconscious.
The materials contained in this layer are of a personal
nature in so far as they have the character partly of ac-
quisitions derived from the individual's life and partly of
psychological factors which could just as well be conscious.
It can readily be understood that incompatible psychological
elements are liable to repression and therefore become
unconscious. But on the other hand this implies the possi-
bility of making and keeping the repressed contents con-
dor a fuller elaboration of this theme see Symbols of Transforma-
tion {Collected Works, Vol. 5), index, s.v. "wind."
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 81
scious once they have been recognized. We recognize them
as personal contents because their effects, or their partial
manifestation, or their source can be discovered in our
personal past. They are the integral components of the
personality, they belong to its inventory, and their loss to
consciousness produces an inferiority in one respect or
another — an inferiority, moreover, that has the psychologi-
cal character not so much of an organic lesion or an inborn
defect as of a lack which gives rise to a feeling of moral
resentment. The sense of moral inferiority always indicates
that the missing element is something which, to judge by
this feeling about it, really ought not be missing, or which
could be made conscious if only one took sufficient trouble.
The moral inferiority does not come from a collision with
the generally accepted and, in a sense, arbitrary moral law,
but from the conflict with one's own self which, for
reasons of psychic equilibrium, demands that the deficit
be redressed. Whenever a sense of moral inferiority appears,
it indicates not only a need to assimilate an unconscious
component, but also the possibility of such assimilation.
In the last resort it is a man's moral qualities which force
him, cither through direct recognition of the need or in-
directly through a painful neurosis, to assimilate his uncon-
scious self and to keep himself fully conscious. Whoever
progresses along this road of self-realization must inevitably
bring into consciousness the contents of the personal un-
conscious, thus enlarging the scope of his personality. 1
should add at once that this enlargement has to do pri-
marily with one's moral consciousness, one's knowledge
of oneself, for the unconscious contents that are released
and brought into consciousness by analysis are usually un-
pleasant — which is precisely why these wishes, memories,
tendencies, plans, etc. were repressed. These are the con-
tents that are brought to light in much the same way by
a thorough confession, though to a much more limited
extent. The rest comes out as a rule in dream analysis. It is
often very interesting to watch how the dreams fetch up
82 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
the essential points, bit by bit and with the nicest choice.
The total material that is added to consciousness causes a
considerable widening of the horizon, a deepened self-
knowledge which, more than anything else, one would
think, is calculated to humanize a man and make him
modest. But even self-knowledge, assumed by all wise men
to be the best and most efficacious, has different effects
on different characters. We make very remarkable dis-
coveries in this respect in practical analysis, but I shall
deal with this question in the next chapter.
As my example of the archaic idea of God shows, the
unconscious seems to contain other things besides personal
acquisitions and belongings. My patient was quite uncon-
scious of the derivation of "spirit" from "wind," or of the
parallelism between the two. This content was not the
product of her thinking, nor had she ever been taught it.
The critical passage in the New Testament was inaccessible
to her — to iTvtvfia Trvel ottov 6£\u — since she knew no
Greek. If we must take it as a wholly personal acquisition,
it might be a case of so-called cryptomnesia, 8 the uncon-
scious recollection of a thought which the dreamer had
once read somewhere. I have nothing against such a possi-
bility in this particular case; but I have seen a sufficient
number of other cases — many of them are to be found in
the book mentioned above — where cryptomnesia can be
excluded with certainty. Even if it were a case of cryptom-
nesia, which seems to me very improbable, we should still
have to explain what the predisposition was that caused
just this image to be retained and later, as Semon puts it,
"ecphoratcd" (eKcpopdv, Latin efjene, 'to produce'). In any
case, cryptomnesia or no cryptomnesia, we are dealing with
a genuine and thoroughly primitive god-image that grew
up in the unconscious of a civilized person and produced
:, Cf. Theodore Flournoy, Des hides a la planete Mars: Etude sur
un cas de somnambulisme avec Glossolalie (Paris and Geneva,
1900), translated by D. B. Vcrmilye as From India to the Planet
Mars (New York, 1900), and Jung, "Psychology and Pathology of
So-called Occult Phenomena" (Ce/tecfed Works, Vol. 1), pars. 138!!.
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 83
a living effect — an effect which might well give the psy-
chologist of religion food for reflection. There is nothing
about this image that could be called personal: it is a
wholly collective image, the ethnic origin of which has
long been known to us. Here is an historical image of
world-wide distribution that has come into existence again
through a natural psychic function. This is not so very
surprising, since my patient was born into the world with
a human brain which presumably still functions today
much as it did of old. We arc dealing with a reactivated
archetype, as I have elsewhere called these primordial
images. 4 These ancient images are restored to life by the
primitive, analogical mode of thinking peculiar to dreams.
It is not a question of inherited ideas, but of inherited
thought-patterns. 5
In view of these facts we must assume that the uncon-
scious contains not only personal, but also impersonal
collective components in the form of inherited categories
or archetypes. I have therefore advanced the hypothesis
that at its deeper levels the unconscious possesses collective
contents in a relatively active state. That is why I speak of
a collective unconscious.
II
Phenomena Resulting from
the Assimilation of the Unconscious
The process of assimilating the unconscious leads to
some very remarkable phenomena. It produces in some
patients an unmistakable and often unpleasant increase of
self-confidence and conceit: they are full of themselves,
4 Cf. Psychological Types (Collected Works, Vol. 6), Dcf. 26. [Sec
also supra pp. xxxi-xxxii, 39-46, and 50-58. — J.C.
3 Consequently, the accusation of "fanciful mysticism'* levelled at
my ideas is lacking in foundation.
Henry Hubert and Marcel Mauss, Melanges d'histoire des religions
(Paris, 1909), p. xxix.
84 .' Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
they know everything, they imagine themselves to be fully
informed of everything concerning their unconscious, and
arc persuaded that they understand perfectly everything
that comes out of it. At every interview with the doctor
they get more and more above themselves. Others on the
contrary feel themselves more and more crushed under the
contents of the unconscious, they lose their self-confidence
and abandon themselves with dull resignation to all the
extraordinary things that the unconscious produces. The
former, overflowing with feelings of their own importance,
assume a responsibility for the unconscious that goes much
too far, beyond all reasonable bounds; the others finally
give up all sense of responsibility, overcome by a sense of
the powerlessness of the ego against the fate working
through the unconscious.
If we analyze these two modes of reaction more deeply,
we find that the optimistic self-confidence of the first con-
ceals a profound sense of impotence, for which their con-
scious optimism acts as an unsuccessful compensation;
while the pessimistic resignation of the others masks a
defiant will to power, far surpassing in cccksureness the
conscious optimism of the first type.
With these two modes of reaction I have sketched only
two crude extremes. A finer shading would have been
truer to reality. As I have said elsewhere, every analysand
starts by unconsciously misusing his newly won knowledge
in the interests of his abnormal, neurotic attitude, unless
he is sufficiently freed from his symptoms in the early
stages to be able to dispense with further treatment al-
together. A very important contributory factor is that in the
early stages everything is still understood on the objective
level, i.e., without distinction between imago and object, so
that everything is referred directly to the object. Hence
the man for whom "other people 1 ' are the objects of prime
importance will conclude from any self-knowledge he may
have imbibed at this stage of the analysis: "Aha! so that is
what other people are like!" He will therefore feel it his
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 85
duty, according to his nature, tolerant or otherwise, to
enlighten the world. But the other man, who feels himself
to be more the object of his fellows than their subject, will
be weighed down by this self-knowledge and become corre-
spondingly depressed. (I am naturally leaving out of ac-
count those numerous and more superficial natures who
experience these problems only by the way.) In both cases
the -relation to the object is reinforced — in the first case
in an active, in the second case in a reactive sense. The
collective element is markedly accentuated. The one extends
the sphere of his action, the other the sphere of his suffering.
Adler has employed the term "godlikeness" to character-
ize certain basic features of neurotic power psychology.
If I likewise borrow the same term from Faust, I use it
here more in the sense of that well-known passage where
Mephisto writes "Eritis sicut Dcus, scientes bonum et
malum 1 ' in the student's album, and makes the following
aside:
Just follow the old advice
And my cousin the snake.
There'll come a time when your godlikeness
Will make you quiver and quake. 7
The godlikeness evidently refers to knowledge, the knowl-
edge of good and evil. The analysis and conscious realiza-
tion of unconscious contents engender a certain superior
tolerance, thanks to which even relatively indigestible por-
tions of one's unconscious characterclogy can be accepted.
This tolerance may look very wise and superior, but often
it is no more than a grand gesture that brings all sorts of
consequences in its train. Two spheres have been brought
together which before were kept anxiously apart. After
considerable resistances have been overcome, the union of
opposites is successfully achieved, at least to all appearances.
The deeper understanding thus gained, the juxtaposition of
what was before separated, and hence the apparent ovcr-
7 Faust, Part I, 3rd scene in Faust's study.
86 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
coming of the moral conflict, give rise to a feeling of
superiority that may well be expressed by the term "god-
likeness. " But this same juxtaposition of good and evil can
have a very different effect on a different kind of tempera-
ment. Not everyone will feel himself a superman, holding
in his hands the scales of good and evil. It may also seem
as though he were a helpless object caught between ham-
mer and anvil; not in the least a Hercules at the parting of
the ways, but rather a rudderless ship buffeted between
Scylla and Charybdis. For without knowing it, he is caught
up in perhaps the greatest and most ancient of human
conflicts, experiencing the throes of eternal principles in
collision. Well might he feel himself like a Prometheus
chained to the Caucasus, or as one crucified. This would
be a "godlikeness" in suffering. Godlikeness is certainly
not a scientific concept, although it aptly characterizes the
psychological state in question. Nor do I imagine that
every reader will immediately grasp the peculiar state of
mind implied by "godlikeness." The term belongs too ex-
clusively to the sphere of belles-lettres. So I should probably
be better advised to give a more circumspect description of
this state. The insight and understanding, then, gained by
the analysand usually reveal much to him that was before
unconscious. He naturally applies this knowledge to his
environment; in consequence he sees, or thinks he sees,
many things that before were invisible. Since his knowl-
edge was helpful to him, he readily assumes that it would be
useful also to others. In this way he is liable to become
arrogant; it may be well meant, but it is nonetheless annoy-
ing to other people. He feels as though he possesses a key
that opens many, perhaps even all, doors. Psychoanalysis
itself has this same bland unconsciousness of its limitations,
as can clearly be seen from the way it meddles with works
of art.
Since human nature is not compounded wholly of light,
but also abounds in shadows, the insight gained in practical
analysis is often somewhat painful, the more so if, as is
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 87
generally the case, one has previously neglected the other
side. Hence there are people who take their newly won in-
sight very much to heart, far too much in fact, quite for-
getting that they are not unique in having a shadow-side.
They allow themselves to get unduly depressed and are
then inclined to doubt everything, finding nothing right
anywhere. That is why many excellent analysts with very
good ideas can never bring themselves to publish them, be-
cause the psychic problem, as they see it, is so overwhelm-
ingly vast that it seems to them almost impossible to tackle
it scientifically. One man's optimism makes him overween-
ing, while another's pessimism makes him over-anxious
and despondent. Such are the forms which the great con-
flict takes when reduced to a smaller scale. But even in
these lesser proportions the essence of the conflict is
easily recognized: the arrogance of the one and the de-
spondency of the other share a common uncertainty as to
their boundaries. The one is excessively expanded, the
other excessively contracted. Their individual boundaries
are in some way obliterated. If we now consider the fact
that, as a result of psychic compensation, great humility
stands very close to pride, and that "pride goeth before
a fall," we can easily discover behind the haughtiness cer-
tain traits of an anxious sense of inferiority. In fact we
shall see clearly how his uncertainty forces the enthusiast
to puff up his truths, of which he feels none too sure, and
to win proselytes to his side in order that his followers
may prove to himself the value and trustworthiness of
his own convictions. Nor is he altogether so happy in his
fund of knowledge as to be able to hold out alone; at
bottom he feels isolated by it, and the secret fear of being
left alone with it induces him to trot out his opinions and
interpretations in and out of season, because only .when
convincing someone else does he feel safe from gnawing
doubts.
It is just the reverse with our despondent friend. The
more he withdraws and hides himself, the greater becomes
SS : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
his secret need to be understood and recognized. Although
he speaks of his inferiority he does not really believe it.
There arises within him a defiant conviction of his un-
recognized merits, and in consequence he is sensitive to
the slightest disapprobation, always wearing the stricken
air of one who is misunderstood and deprived of his right-
ful due. In this way he nurses a morbid pride and an in-
solent discontent — which is the very last thing he wants
and for which his environment has to pay all the more
dearly.
Both are at once too small and too big; their individual
mean, never very secure, now becomes shakier than ever.
It sounds almost grotesque to describe such a state as
"godlike." But since each in his way steps beyond his
human proportions, both of them are a little "superhuman"
and therefore, figuratively speaking, godlike. If we wish to
avoid the use of this metaphor, I would suggest that we
speak instead of "psychic inflation." The term seems to
me appropriate in so far as the state we are discussing in-
volves an extension of the personality beyond individual
limits, in other words, a state of being puffed up. In such
a state a man fills a space which normally he cannot fill.
He can only fill it by appropriating to himself contents
and qualities which properly exist for themselves alone and
should therefore remain outside our bounds. What lies out-
side ourselves belongs either to someone else, or to every-
one, or to no one. Since psychic inflation is by no means
a phenomenon induced exclusively by analysis, but occurs
just as often in ordinary life, we can investigate it equally
well in other cases. A very common instance is the humour-
less way in which many men identify themselves with
their business or their titles. The office I hold is certainly
my special activity; but it is also a collective factor that
has come into existence historically through the co-opera-
tion of many people and whose dignity rests solely on col-
lective approval. When, therefore, I identify myself with
my office or title, I behave as though I myself were the
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 89
whole complex of social factors of which that office con-
sists, or as though I were not only the bearer of the office,
but also and at the same time the approval of society. I
have made an extraordinary extension of myself and have
usurped qualities which are not in me but outside me.
L'etat c'est moi is the motto for such people.
In the case of inflation through knowledge we are deal-
ing with something similar in principle, though psycholog-
ically more subtle. Here it is not the dignity of an office
that causes the inflation, but very significant fantasies. 1
will explain what I mean by a practical example, choosing
a mental case whom I happened to know personally and
who is also mentioned in a publication by Maeder. 8 The
case is characterized by a high degree of inflation. (In
mental cases we can observe all the phenomena that are
present only fleetingly in normal people, in a cruder and
enlarged form.) 9 The patient suffered from paranoid de-
mentia with megalomania. He was in telephonic com-
munication with the Mother of God and other great ones.
In human reality he was a wretched locksmith's apprentice
who at the age of nineteen had become incurably insane.
He had never been blessed with intelligence, but he had,
among other things, hit upon the magnificent idea that
the world was his picture-book, the pages of which he
could turn at will. The proof was quite simple: he had
only to turn round, and there was a new page for him to
see.
This is Schopenhauer's "world as will and idea" in un-
8 A. Maeder, "Psychologische Untersuchungen an Dementia-Praecox-
Kranken," Jalubuch jiir psychoanalytische unci psychopathologische
Forscluingen, 11 (1910), 209ft.
•When I was still a doctor at the psychiatric clinic in Zurich, I
once took an intelligent layman through the sick-wards. He had
never seen a lunatic asylum from the inside before. When we had
finished our round, he exclaimed, "I tell you, it's just like Zurich in
miniature! A quintessence of the population. It is as though all the
types one meets every day on the streets had been assembled here
in their classical purity. Nothing but oddities and picked specimens
from top to bottom of society!" 1 had never looked at it from this
angle before, but my friend was not far wrong.
go : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
adorned, primitive concreteness of vision. A shattering idea
indeed, born of extreme alienation and seclusion from the
world, but so naively and simply expressed that at first
one can only smile at the grotesqueness of it. And yet this
primitive way of looking lies at the very heart of Schopen-
hauer's brilliant vision of the world. Only a genius or a
madman could so disentangle himself from the bonds of
reality as to see the world as his picture-book. Did the
patient actually work out or build up such a vision, or did
it just befall him? Or did he perhaps fall into it? His
pathological disintegration and inflation point rather to
the latter. It is no longer he that thinks and speaks, but it
thinks and speaks within him: he hears voices. So the
diilerence between him and Schopenhauer is that, in him,
the vision remained at the stage of a mere spontaneous
growth, while Schopenhauer abstracted it and expressed it
in language of universal validity. In so doing he raised it
out of its subterranean beginnings into the clear light of
collective consciousness. But it would be quite wrong to
suppose that the patient's vision had a purely personal
character or value, as though it were something that be-
longed to him. If that were so, he would be a philosopher,
A man is a philosopher of genius only when he succeeds
in transmuting the primitive and merely natural vision into
an abstract idea belonging to the common stock of con-
sciousness. This achievement, and this alone, constitutes
his personal value, for which he may take credit without
necessarily succumbing to inflation. But the sick man's
vision is an impersonal value, a natural growth against
which he is powerless to defend himself, by which he is
actually swallowed up and "wafted" clean out of the world.
Far from his mastering the idea and expanding it into a
philosophical view of the world, it is truer to say that the
undoubted grandeur of his vision blew him up to patholog-
ical proportions. The personal value lies entirely in the
philosophical achievement, not in the primary vision. To
the philosopher as well this vision comes as so much in-
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 91
crement, and is simply a part of the common property of
mankind, in which, in principle, everyone has a share.
The golden apples drop from the same tree, whether they
be gathered by an imbecile locksmith's apprentice or by a
Schopenhauer.
There is, however, yet another thing to be learnt from
this example, namely that these transpersonal contents are
not just inert or dead matter that can be annexed at will.
Rather they are living entities which exert an attractive
force upon the conscious mind. Identification with one's
office or one's title is very attractive indeed, which is pre-
cisely why so many men are nothing more than the de-
corum accorded to them by society. In vain would one look
for a personality behind the husk. Underneath all the
padding one would find a very pitiable little creature. That
is why the office — or whatever this outer husk may be —
is so attractive: it offers easy compensation for personal
deficiencies.
Outer attractions, such as offices, titles, and other social
regalia are not the only things that cause inflation. These
are simply impersonal quantities that lie outside in society,
in the collective consciousness. But just as there is a society
outside the individual, so there is a collective psyche out-
side the personal psyche, namely the collective uncon-
scious, concealing, as the above example shows, elements
that are no whit less attractive. And just as a man may
suddenly step into the world on his professional dignity
("Messieurs, a present je suis Roy"), so another may dis-
appear out of it equally suddenly when it is his lot to be-
hold one of those mighty images that put a new face upon
the world. These are the magical representations collectives
which underlie the slogan, the catchword, and, on a higher
level, the language of the poet and mystic. I am reminded
of another mental case who was neither a poet nor any-
thing very outstanding, just a naturally quiet and rather
sentimental youth. He had fallen in love with a girl and,
as so often happens, had failed to ascertain whether his
£2 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
love was requited. His primitive participation mystique
took it for granted that his agitations were plainly the
agitations of the other, which on the lower levels of hu-
man psychology is naturally very often the case. Thus he
built up a sentimental love-fantasy which precipitately
collapsed when he discovered that the girl would have
none of him. He was so desperate that he went straight to
the river to drown himself. It was late at night, and the
stars gleamed up at him from the dark water. It seemed
to him that the stars were swimming two by two down the
river, and a wonderful feeling came over him. He forgot
his suicidal intentions and gazed fascinated at the strange,
sweet drama. And gradually he became aware that every
star was a face, and that all these pairs were lovers, who
were carried along locked in a dreaming embrace. An
entirely new understanding came to him: all had changed
— his fate, his disappointment, even his love, receded and
fell away. The memory of the girl grew distant, blurred;
but instead, he felt with complete certainty that untold
riches were promised him. He knew that an immense
treasure lay hidden for him in the neighbouring observa-
tory. The result was that he was arrested by the police at
four o'clock in the morning, attempting to break into the
observatory.
What had happened? His poor head had glimpsed a
Dantesque vision, whose loveliness he could never have
grasped had he read it in a poem. But he saw it, and it
transformed him. What had hurt him most was now far
away; a new and undreamed-of world of stars, tracing their
silent courses far beyond this grievous earth, had opened
out to him the moment he crossed "Proserpine's threshold."
The intuition of untold wealth — and could any fail to be
touched by this thought?— came to him like a revelation.
For his poor turnip-head it was too much. He did not
drown in the river, but in an eternal image, and its beauty
perished with him.
Just as one man may disappear in his social role, so
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 93
another may be engulfed in an inner vision and be lost to
his surroundings. Many fathomless transformations of per-
sonality, like sudden conversions and other far-reaching
changes of mind, originate in the attractive power of a
collective image, 10 which, as the present example shows,
can cause such a high degree of inflation that the entire
personality is disintegrated. This disintegration is a mental
disease, of a transitory or a permanent nature, a "splitting
of the mind" or "schizophrenia," in Bleuler's term. 11 The
pathological inflation naturally depends on some innate
weakness of the personality against the autonomy of col-
lective unconscious contents.
We shall probably get nearest to the truth if we think
of the conscious and personal psyche as resting upon the
broad basis of an inherited and universal psychic disposi-
tion which is as such unconscious, and that our personal
psyche bears the same relation to the collective psyche as
the individual to society.
But equally, just as the individual is not merely a unique
and separate being, but is also a social being, so the hu-
man psyche is not a self-contained and wholly individual
phenomenon, but also a collective one. And just as certain
social functions or instincts are opposed to the interests of
single individuals, so the human psyche exhibits certain
functions or tendencies which, on account of their collec-
tive nature, are opposed to individual needs. The reason
for this is that every man is born with a highly differen-
tiated brain and is thus assured of a wide range of mental
functioning which is neither developed ontogenetically nor
acquired. But, to the degree that human brains are uni-
formly differentiated, the mental functioning thereby made
possible is also collective and universal. This explains, for
example, the interesting fact that the unconscious processes
10 Leon Daudct, in L'Heredo (Paris, 1916), calls this process "auto-
fecondaiion interieure," by which he means the reawakening of an
ancestral soul.
11 Eugcn Blculcr, Dementia Praccox or the Group of Schizophrenias,
originally published 1911, translated by J. Zinkin (New York, 1950).
94 • Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
of the most widely separated peoples and races show a
quite remarkable correspondence, which displays itself,
among other things, in the extraordinary but well-authen-
ticated analogies between the forms and motifs of autoch-
thonous myths. The universal similarity of human brains
leads to the universal possibility of a uniform mental func-
tioning. This functioning is the collective psyche. Inasmuch
as there are differentiations corresponding to race, tribe,
and even family, there is also a collective psyche limited to
race, tribe, and family over and above the "universal"
collective psyche. To borrow an expression from Pierre
Janet, 12 the collective psyche comprises the parties in-
ferieures of the 'psychic functions, that is to say those
deep-rooted, well-nigh automatic portions of the individual
psyche which are inherited and are to be found every-
where, and are thus impersonal or suprapersonal. Con-
sciousness plus the personal unconscious constitutes the
parties superieures of the psychic functions, those por-
tions, therefore, that are developed ontogenetically and
acquired. Consequently, the individual who annexes the
unconscious heritage of the collective psyche to what has
accrued to him in the course of his ontogenetic develop-
ment, as though it were part of the latter, enlarges the
scope of his personality in an illegitimate way and suffers
the consequences. In so far as the collective psyche com-
prises the parties inferieures of the psychic functions and
thus forms the basis of every personality, it has the effect
of crushing and devaluing the personality. This shows it-
self either in the aforementioned stifling of self-confidence
or else in an unconscious heightening of the ego's impor-
tance to the point of a pathological will to power.
By raising the personal unconscious to consciousness,
the analysis makes the subject aware of things which he
is generally aware of in others, but never in himself. This
discovery makes him therefore less individually unique,
and more collective. His collectivization is not always a
u Pierre Janet, Les Nivroses (Paris, 1898).
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 95
step to the bad; it may sometimes be a step to the good.
There are people who repress their good qualities and con-
sciously give free rein to their infantile desires. The lifting
of personal repressions at first brings purely personal con-
tents into consciousness; but attached to them are the col-
lective elements of the unconscious, the ever-present in-
stincts, qualities, and ideas (images) as well as all those
"statistical" quotas of average virtue and average vice
which we recognize when we say, "Everyone has in him
something of the criminal, the genius, and the saint." Thus
a living picture emerges, containing pretty well everything
that moves upon the checkerboard of the world, the good
and the bad, the fair and the foul. A sense of solidarity
with the world is gradually built up, which is felt by many
natures as something very positive and in certain cases
actually is the deciding factor in the treatment of neurosis.
I have myself seen cases who, in this condition, managed
for the first time in their lives to arouse love, and even to
experience it themselves; or, by daring to leap into the
unknown, they get involved in the very fate for which they
were suited. I have seen not a few who, taking this condi-
tion as final, remained for years in a state of enterprising
euphoria. I have often heard such cases referred to as
shining examples of analytical therapy. But I must point
out that cases of this euphoric and enterprising type are
so utterly lacking in differentiation from the world that
nobody could pass them as fundamentally cured. To my
way of thinking they are as much cured as not cured. I
have had occasion to follow up the lives of such patients,
and it must be owned that many of them showed symptoms
of maladjustment, which, if persisted in, gradually leads
to the sterility and monotony so characteristic of those
who have divested themselves of their egos. Here too I
am speaking of the border-line cases, and not of the less
valuable, normal, average folk for whom the question of
adaptation is more technical than problematical. If 1 were
more of a therapist than an investigator, 1 would naturally
$6 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
be unable to check a certain optimism of judgment, be-
cause my eyes v? ould then be glued to the number of cures.
But my conscience as an investigator is concerned not with
quantity but with quality. Nature is aristocratic, and one
person of value outweighs ten lesser ones. My eye fol-
lowed the valuable people, and from them I learned the
dubiousness of the results of a purely personal analysis,
and also to understand the reasons for this dubiousness.
If, through assimilation of the unconscious, we make the
mistake of including the collective psyche in the inventory
of personal psychic functions, a dissolution of the per-
sonality into its paired opposites inevitably follows. Besides
the pair of opposites already discussed, megalomania and
the sense of inferiority, which are so painfully evident in
neurosis, there are many others, from which I will single
out only the specifically moral pair of opposites, namely
good and evil. The specific virtues and vices of humanity
are contained in the collective psyche like everything else.
One man arrogates collective virtue to himself as his per-
sonal merit, another takes collective vice as his personal
guilt. Both are as illusory as the megalomania and the
inferiority, because the imaginary virtues and the imag-
inary wickednesses are simply the moral pair of opposites
contained in the collective psyche, which have become
perceptible or have been rendered conscious artificially.
How much these paired opposites are contained in the
collective psyche is exemplified by primitives: one ob-
server will extol the greatest virtues in them, while an-
other will record the very worst impressions of the self-
same tribe. For the primitive, whose personal differentia-
tion is, as we know, only just beginning, both judgments
are true, because his psyche is essentially collective and
therefore for the most part unconscious. He is still more
or less identical with the collective psyche, and for that
reason shares equally in the collective virtues and vices,
without any personal attribution and without inner con-
tradiction. The contradiction arises only when the personal
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 97
development of the psyche begins, and when reason dis-
covers the irreconcilable nature of the opposites. The con-
sequence of this discovery is the conflict of repression. We
want to be good, and therefore must repress evil; and with
that the paradise of the collective psyche comes to an end.
Repression of the collective psyche was absolutely neces-
sary for the development of personality. In primitives,
development of personality, or more accurately, develop-
ment of the person, is a question of magical prestige. The
figure of the medicine-man or chief leads the way: both
make themselves conspicuous by the singularity of their
ornaments and their mode of life, expressive of their social
roles. The singularity of his outward tokens marks the
individual off from the rest, and the segregation is still
further enhanced by the possession of special ritual secrets.
By these and similar means the primitive creates around
him a shell, which might be called a persona (mask).
Masks, as we know, are actually used among primitives in
totem ceremonies — for instance, as a means of enhancing
or changing the personality. In this way the outstanding
individual is apparently removed from the sphere of the
collective psyche, and to the degree that he succeeds in
identifying himself with his persona, he actually is re-
moved. This removal means magical prestige. One could
easily assert that the impelling motive in this development
is the will to power. But that would be to forget that the
building up of prestige is always a product of collective
compromise: not only must there be one who wants pres-
tige, there must also be a public seeking somebody on
whom to confer prestige. That being so, it would be in-
correct to say that a man creates prestige for himself out
of his individual will to power; it is on the contrary an
entirely collective affair. Since society as a whole needs
the magically cfTective figure, it uses this need of the will
to power in the individual, and the will to submit in the
mass, as a vehicle, and thus brings about the creation of
personal prestige. The latter is a phenomenon which, as
gS : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
the history of political institutions shows, is of the utmost
importance for the comity of nations.
The importance of personal prestige can hardly be over-
estimated, because the possibility of regressive dissolution
in the collective psyche is a very real danger, not only for
the outstanding individual but also for his followers. This
possibility is most likely to occur when the goal of prestige
— universal recognition — has been reached. The person
then becomes a collective truth, and that is always the be-
ginning of the end. To gain prestige is a positive achieve-
ment not only for the outstanding individual but also for
the clan. The individual distinguishes himself by his deeds,
the many by their renunciation of power. So long as this
attitude needs to be fought for and defended against hostile
influences, the achievement remains positive; but as soon
as there are no more obstacles a.nd universal recognition
has been attained, prestige loses its positive value and
usually becomes a dead letter. A schismatic movement
then sets in, and the whole process begins again from the
beginning.
Because personality is of such paramount importance
for the life of the community, everything likely to disturb
its development is sensed as a danger. But the greatest
danger of all is the premature dissolution of prestige by
an invasion of the collective psyche. Absolute secrecy is
one of the best known primitive means of exorcising this
danger. Collective thinking and feeling and collective effort
are far less of a strain than individual functioning and
effort; hence there is always a great temptation to allow
collective functioning to take the place of individual dif-
ferentiation of the personality. Once the personality has
been differentiated and safeguarded by magical prestige, its
levelling down and eventual dissolution in the collective
psyche (e.g., Peter's denial) occasion a "loss of soul" in
the individual, because an important personal achievement
has been cither neglected or allowed to slip into regression.
For this reason taboo infringements are followed by Dra-
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 99
conian punishments altogether in keeping with the serious-
ness of the situation. So long as we regard these things
from the causal point of view, as mere historical survivals
and metastases of the incest taboo, 1 '* it is impossible to
understand what all these measures are for. If, however,
we approach the problem from the tclcological point of
view, much that was quite inexplicable becomes clear.
For the development of personality, then, strict differen-
tiation from the collective psyche is absolutely necessary,
since partial or blurred differentiation leads to an immedi-
ate melting away of the individual in the collective. There
is now a danger that in the analysis of the unconscious
the collective and the personal psyche may be fused to-
gether, with, as I have intimated, highly unfortunate re-
sults. These results are injurious both to the patient's life-
feeling and to his fellow men, if he has any influence at
all on his environment. Through his identification with
the collective psyche he will infallibly try to force the de-
mands of his unconscious upon others, for identity with
the collective psyche always brings with it a feeling of
universal validity — "godlikcness 1 ' — which completely ig-
nores all differences in the personal psyche of his fellows.
(The feeling of universal validity comes, of course, from
the universality of the collective psyche.) A collective atti-
tude naturally presupposes this same collective psyche in
others. But that means a ruthless disregard not only of
individual differences but also of differences of a more
general kind within the collective psyche itself, as for ex-
ample differences of race. 14 This disregard for individuality
,:l Sigmuncl Freud, Totem and Taboo, translated by J. Sirachey (Lon-
don, 1950).
n Thus it is a quite unpardonable mistake to accept the conclusions
of a Jewish psychology as generally valid. Nobody would dream of
taking Chinese or Indian psychology as binding upon 0111 selves. The
cheap accusation of anii-Scmilism that has been levelled at me on
the ground of this criticism is about as intelligent as accusing me of
an anli-Chinese prejudice. No doubt, on an earlier and deeper level
of psychic development, where it is still impossible to distinguish
between an Aryan, Semitic, Hamilic, or Mongolian mentality, all
ioo : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
obviously means the suffocation of the single individual,
as a consequence of which the element of differentiation
is obliterated from the community. The element of differ-
entiation is the individual. All the highest achievements of
virtue, as well as the blackest villainies, are individual. The
larger a community is, and the more the sum total of
collective factors peculiar to every large community rests
on conservative prejudices detrimental to individuality, the
more will the individual be morally and spiritually crushed,
and, as a result, the one source of moral and spiritual
progress for society is choked up. Naturally the only thing
that can thrive in such an atmosphere is sociality and
whatever is collective in the individual. Everything individ-
ual in him goes under, i.e., is doomed to repression. The
individual elements lapse into the unconscious, where, by
the law of necessity, they are transformed into something
essentially baleful, destructive, and anarchical. Socially,
this evil principle shows itself in the spectacular crimes —
regicide and the like — perpetrated by certain prophetically-
inclined individuals; but in the great mass of the commu-
nity it remains in the background, and only manifests
itself indirectly in the inexorable moral degeneration of so-
ciety. It is a notorious fact that the morality of society as
a whole is in inverse ratio to its size; for the greater the
aggregation of individuals, the more the individual factors
are blotted out, and with them morality, which rests en-
tirely on the moral sense of the individual and the freedom
necessary for this. Hence every man is, in a certain sense,
unconsciously a worse man when he is in society than when
acting alone; for he is carried by society and to that extent
relieved of his individual responsibility. Any large com-
pany composed of wholly admirable persons has the moral-
human races have a common collective psyche. But with the begin-
ning of racial differentiation essential differences are developed in
the collective psyche as well. For this reason we cannot transplant
the spirit of a foreign race in globo into our own mentality without
sensible injury to the latter, a fact which does not, however, deter
sundry natures of feeble instinct from affecting Indian philosophy
and the like.
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : ioi
ity and intelligence of an unwieldy, stupid, and violent
animal. The bigger the organization, the more unavoid-
able is its immorality and blind stupidity (Senatus bestia,
senatores boni viri) . Society, by automatically stressing all
the collective qualities in its individual representatives, puts
a premium on mediocrity, on everything that settles down
to vegetate if* an easy, irresponsible way. Individuality
will inevitably be driven to the wall. This process begins
in school, continues at the university, and rules all depart-
ments in which the State has a hand. In a small social body,
the individuality of its members is better safeguarded, and
the greater is their relative freedom and the possibility of
conscious responsibility. Without freedom there can be no
morality. Our admiration for great organizations dwindles
when once we become aware of the other side of the won-
der: the tremendous piling up and accentuation of all that
is primitive in man, and the unavoidable destruction of
his individuality in the interests of the monstrosity that
every great organization in fact is. The man of today, who
resembles more or less the collective ideal, has made his
heart into a den of murderers, as can easily be proved by
the analysis of his unconscious, even though he himself is
not in the least disturbed by it. And in so far as he is
normally "adapted" {t> to his environment, it is true that
the greatest infamy on the part of his group will not dis-
turb him, so long as the majority of his fellows steadfastly
believe in the exalted morality of their social organization.
Now, all that I have said here about the influence of society
upon the individual is identically true of the influence of
the collective unconscious upon the individual psyche. But,
as is apparent from my examples, the latter influence is
as invisible as the former is visible. Hence it is not sur-
prising that its inner effects are not understood, and that
those to whom such things happen arc called pathological
freaks and treated as crazy. If one of them happened to
T!i Cf. "adjustment" and "adaptation" in Psychological Types (Col-
lected Works, Vol. 6), par. 564.
102 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
be a real genius, the fact would not be noted until the
next generation or the one after. So obvious does it seem
to us that a man should drown in his own dignity, so
utterly incomprehensible that he should seek anything
other than what the mob wants, and that he should vanish
permanently from view in this other. One could wish both
of them a sense of humour, that — according to Schopen-
hauer — truly "divine" attribute of man which alone befits
him to maintain his soul in freedom.
The collective instincts and fundamental forms of think-
ing and feeling whose activity is revealed by the analysis
of the unconscious constitute, for the conscious personal-
ity, an acquisition which it cannot assimilate without con-
siderable disturbance. It is therefore of the utmost im-
portance in practical treatment to keep the integrity of the
personality constantly in mind. For, if the collective psyche
is taken to be the personal possession of the individual, it
will result in a distortion or an overloading of the per-
sonality which is very difficult to deal with. Hence it is
imperative to make a clear distinction between personal
contents and those of the collective psyche. This distinc-
tion is far from easy, because the personal grows out of
the collective psyche and is intimately bound up with it.
So it is difficult to say exactly what contents are to be
called personal and what collective. There is no doubt,
for instance, that archaic symbolisms such as we fre-
quently find in fantasies and dreams are collective factors.
All basic instincts and basic forms of thinking and feeling
are collective. Everything that all men agree in regarding
as universal is collective, likewise everything that is uni-
versally understood, universally found, universally said
and done. On closer examination one is always astonished
to sec how much of our so-called individual psychology is
really collective. So much, indeed, that the individual traits
are completely overshadowed by it. Since, however, in-
dividuation 10 is an ineluctable psychological necessity, we
10 Ibid., Def. 29: 'individuation is a process of differentiation,
having for its goal the development of the individual personality."
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 103
can see from the ascendancy of the collective what very
special attention must be paid to this delicate plant "in-
dividuality" if it is not to be completely smothered.
Human beings have one faculty which, though it is of
the greatest utility for collective purposes, is most perni-
cious for individuation, and that is the faculty of imitation.
Collective psychology cannot dispense with imitation, for
without it all mass organizations, the State and the social
order, are impossible. Society is organized, indeed, less by
law than by the propensity to imitation, implying equally
suggestibility, suggestion, and mental contagion. But we
see every day how people use, or rather abuse, the mecha-
nism of imitation for the purpose of personal differentia-
tion: they are content to. ape some eminent personality,
some striking characteristic or mode of behaviour, thereby
achieving an outward distinction from the circle in which
they move. We could almost say that as a punishment for
this the uniformity of their minds with those of their neigh-
bours, already real enough, is intensified into an uncon-
scious, compulsive bondage to the environment. As a rule
these specious attempts at individual differentiation stiffen
into a pose, and the imitator remains at the same level as
he always was, only several degrees more sterile than be-
fore. To find out what is truly individual in ourselves, pro-
found reflection is needed; and suddenly we realize how
uncommonly difficult the discovery of individuality is.
Ill
The Persona as a Segment of
the Collective Psyche
In this chapter we come to a problem which, if over-
looked, is liable to cause the greatest confusion. It will be
remembered that in the analysis of the personal uncon-
— "Since the individual is not only a single entity, but also, by his
very existence, presupposes a collective relationship, the process of
individuation does not lead to isolation, but to an intenscr and more
universal collective solidarity."
104 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
scious the first things to be added to consciousness are
the personal contents, and I suggested that these contents,
which have been repressed but are capable of becoming
conscious, should be called the personal unconscious, I
also showed that to annex the deeper layers of the un-
conscious, which I have called the collective unconscious,
produces an enlargement of the personality leading to the
state of inflation. This state is reached by simply con-
tinuing the analytical work, as in the case of the young
woman discussed above. By continuing the analysis we
add to the personal consciousness certain fundamental,
general, and impersonal characteristics of humanity,
thereby bringing about the inflation 17 I have just described,
which might be regarded as one of the unpleasant con-
sequences of becoming fully conscious.
17 This phenomenon, which results from the extension of conscious-
ness, is in no sense specific to analytical treatment. It occurs when-
ever people are overpowered by knowledge or by some new realiza-
tion. "Knowledge puffcth up," Paul writes to the Corinthians, for
the new knowledge had turned the heads of many, as indeed con-
stantly happens. The inflation has nothing to do with the kind of
knowledge, but simply and solely with the fact that any new know-
ledge can so seize hold of a weak head that he no longer sees and
hears anything else. He is hypnotized by it, and instantly believes
he has solved the riddle of the universe. But that is equivalent to
almighty self-conceit. This process is such a general reaction that,
in Genesis 2:17, eating of the tree of knowledge is represented as
a deadly sin. It may not be immediately apparent why greater con-
sciousness followed by self-conceit should be such a dangerous thing.
Genesis represents the act of becoming conscious as a taboo infringe-
ment, as though knowledge meant that a sacrosanct barrier had been
impiously overstepped. 1 think that Genesis is right in so far as every
step towards greater consciousness is a kind of Promethean guilt:
through knowledge, the gods are as it were robbed of their fire,
that is, something that was the property of the unconscious powers
is torn out of Us natural context and subordinated to the whims of
the conscious mind. The man who has usurped the new knowledge
suffers, however, a transformation or enlargement of consciousness,
which no longer resembles that of his fellow men. He has raised
himself above the human level of his age ("ye shall become like
unto God ) but in so doing has alienated himself from humanity,
inc pain of this loneliness is the vengeance of the gods, for never
again can he return to mankind. He is, as the myth says, chained
to the lonely cliffs of the Caucasus, forsaken of God and man.
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 105
From this point of view the conscious personality is a
more or less arbitrary segment of the collective psyche.
It consists in a sum of psychic facts that are felt to be
personal. The attribute "personal" means: pertaining ex-
clusively to this particular person. A consciousness that
is purely personal stresses its proprietary and original
right to its contents with a certain anxiety, and in this way
seeks to create a whole. But all thoL-c contents that refuse
to fit into this whole are either overlooked and forgotten
or repressed and denied. This is one way of educating
oneself, but it is too arbitrary and too much of a violation.
Far too much of our common humanity has to be sacrificed
in the interests of an ideal image into which one tries to
mould oneself. Hence these purely "personal" people are
always very sensitive, for something may easily happen
that will bring into consciousness an unwelcome portion
of their real ("individual") character.
This arbitrary segment of collective psyche — often fash-
ioned with considerable pains — I have called the persona.
The term persona is really a very appropriate expression
for this, for originally it meant the mask once worn by
actors to indicate the role they played. If we endeavour to
draw a precise distinction between what psychic material
should be considered personal, and what impersonal, we
soon find ourselves in the greatest dilemma, for by defini-
tion we have to say of the persona's contents what we
have said of the impersonal unconscious, namely, that it
is collective. It is only because the persona represents a
more or less arbitrary and fortuitous segment of the col-
lective psyche that we can make the mistake of regarding
it in toto as something individual. It is, as its name im-
plies, only a mask of the collective psyche, a mask that
feigns individuality, making others and oneself believe that
one is individual, whereas one is simply acting a role
through which the collective psyche speaks.
When we analyze the persona we strip off the mask, and
discover that what seemed to be individual is at bottom
w6 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
collective; in other words, that the persona was only a
mask of the collective psyche. Fundamentally the persona
is nothing real: it is a compromise between individual and
society as to what a man should appear to be. He takes a
name, earns a title, exercises a function, he is this or that.
In a certain sense all this is real, yet in relation to the
essential individuality of the person concerned it is only
a secondary reality, a compromise formation, in making
which others often have a greater share than he. The per-
sona is a semblance, a two-dimensional reality, to give it
a nickname.
It would be wrong to leave the matter as it stands with-
out at the same time recognizing that there is, after all,
something individual in the peculiar choice and delineation
of the persona, and that despite the exclusive identity of
the ego-consciousness with the persona the unconscious
self, one's real individuality, is always present and makes
itself felt indirectly if not directly. Although the ego-con-
sciousness is at first identical with the persona — that com-
promise role in which we parade before the community —
yet the unconscious self can never be repressed to the
point of extinction. Its influence is chiefly manifest in the
special nature of the contrasting and compensating con-
tents of the unconscious. The purely personal attitude of
the conscious mind evokes reactions on the part of the
unconscious, and these, together with personal repressions,
contain the seeds of individual development in the guise of
collective fantasies. Through the analysis of the personal
unconscious, the conscious mind becomes suffused with
collective material which brings with it the elements of
individuality. I am well aware that this conclusion must
be almost unintelligible to anyone not familiar with my
views and technique, and particularly so to those who
habitually regard the unconscious from the standpoint of
Freudian theory. But if the reader will recall my example
of the philosophy student, he can form a rough idea of
what 1 mean. At the beginning of the treatment the patient
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 107
was quite unconscious of the fact that her relation to her
father was a fixation, and that she was therefore seeking a
man like her father, whom she could then meet with her
intellect. This in itself would not have been a mistake if
her intellect had not had that peculiarly protesting char-
acter such as is unfortunately often encountered in in-
tellectual women. Such an intellect is always trying to
point out mistakes in others; it is pre-eminently critical,
with a disagreeably personal undertone, yet it always wants
to be considered objective. This invariably makes a man
bad-tempered, particularly if, as so often happens, the
criticism touches on some weak spot which, in the interests
of fruitful discussion, were better avoided. But far from
wishing the discussion to be fruitful, it is the unfortunate
peculiarity of this feminine intellect to seek out a man's
weak spots, fasten on them, and exasperate him. This is
not usually a conscious aim, but rather has the uncon-
scious purpose of forcing a man into a superior position
and thus making him an object of admiration. The man
does not as a rule notice that he is having the role of the
hero thrust upon him; he merely finds her taunts so odious
that in future he will go a long way to avoid meeting the
lady, in the end the only man who can stand her is the
one who gives in at the start, and therefore has nothing
wonderful about him.
My patient naturally found much to reflect upon in all
this, for she had no notion of the game she was playing.
Moreover she still had to gain insight into the regular
romance that had been enacted between her and her father
ever since childhood. It would lead us too far to describe
in detail how, from her earliest years, with unconscious
sympathy, she had played upon the shadow-side of her
father which her mother never saw, and how, far in ad-
vance of her years, she became her mother's rival. All this
came to light in the analysis of the personal unconscious.
Since, if only for professional reasons, 1 could not allow
myself to be irritated, I inevitably became the hero and
ioS : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
father-lover. The transference too consisted at first of con-
tents from the personal unconscious. My role as a hero
was just a sham, and so, as it turned me into the merest
phantom, she was able to play her traditional role of the
supremely wise, very grown-up, all-understanding mother-
daughter-beloved — an empty role, a persona behind which
her real and authentic being, her individual self, lay hid-
den. Indeed, to the extent that she at first completely iden-
tified herself with her role, she was altogether unconscious
of her real self. She was still in her nebulous infantile world
and had not yet discovered the real world at all. But as,
through progressive analysis, she became conscious of the
nature of her transference, the dreams I ^poke of in Chap-
ter 1 began to materialize. They brought up bits of the
collective unconscious, and that was the end of her in-
fantile world and of all the heroics. She came to herself
and to her own real potentialities. This is roughly the way
things go in most cases, if the analysis is carried far
enough. That the consciousness of her individuality should
coincide exactly with the reactivation of an archaic god-
image is not just an isolated coincidence, but a very fre-
quent occurrence which, in my view, corresponds to an
unconscious law.
After this digression, let us turn back to our earlier re-
flections.
Once the personal repressions are lifted, the individuality
and the collective psyche begin to emerge in a coalescent
state, thus releasing the hitherto repressed personal fan-
tasies. The fantasies and dreams which now appear assume
a somewhat different aspect. An infallible sign of collec-
tive images seems to be the appearance of the "cosmic"
clement, i.e., the images in the dream or fantasy are con-
nected with cosmic qualities, such as temporal and spatial
infinity, enormous speed and extension of movement, "as-
trological" associations, telluric, lunar, and solar analogies,
changes in the proportions of the body, etc. The obvious
occurrence of mythological and religious motifs in a dream
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 109
also points to the activity of the collective unconscious.
The collective element is very often announced by peculiar
symptoms, 18 as for example by dreams where the dreamer
is flying through space like a comet, or feels that he is
the earth, or the sun, or a star; or else is of immense size,
or dwarflshly small; or that he is dead, is in a strange
place, is a stranger to himself, confused, mad, etc. Simi-
larly, feelings of disorientation, of dizziness and the like,
may appear along with symptoms of inflation.
The forces that burst out of the collective psyche have
a confusing and blinding effect. One result of the dissolu-
tion of the persona is a release of involuntary fantasy,
which is apparently nothing else than the specific activity
of the collective psyche. This activity throws up contents
whose existence one had never suspected before. But as
the influence of the collective unconscious increases, so
the conscious mind loses its power of leadership. Imper-
ceptibly it becomes the led, while an unconscious and im-
personal process gradually takes control. Thus, without
noticing it, the conscious personality is pushed about like
a figure on a chess-board by an invisible player. It is this
player who decides the game of fate, not the conscious
mind and its plans. This is how the resolution of the trans-
ference, apparently so impossible to the conscious mind,
was brought about in my earlier example.
The plunge into this process becomes unavoidable when-
ever the necessity arises of overcoming an apparently in-
superable difficulty. It goes without saying that this neces-
sity does not occur in every case of neurosis, since perhaps
in the majority the prime consideration is only the removal
of temporary difficulties of adaptation. Certainly severe
cases cannot be cured without a far-reaching change of
character or of attitude. In by far the greater number,
*" It may not be superfluous to note that collective elements in dreams
are not restricted to this stage of the analytical treatment. There are
many psychological situations in which the activity of the collective
unconscious can come to the surface. 13 ut this is not the place to
enlarge upon these conditions.
no : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
adaptation to external reality demands so much work that
inner adaptation to the collective unconscious cannot be
considered for a very long time. But when this inner adap-
tation becomes a problem, a strange, irresistible attraction
proceeds from the unconscious and exerts a powerful in-
fluence on the conscious direction of life. The predomi-
nance of unconscious influences, together with the asso-
ciated disintegration of the persona and the deposition of
the conscious mind from power, constitute a state of psy-
chic disequilibrium which, in analytical treatment, is arti-
ficially induced for the therapeutic purpose of resolving a
difficulty that might block further development. There are
of course innumerable obstacles that can be overcome with
good advice and a little moral support, aided by goodwill
and understanding on the part of the patient. Excellent
curative results can be obtained in this way. Cases are not
uncommon where there is no need to breathe a word about
the unconscious. But again, there are difficulties for which
one can foresee no satisfactory solution. If in these cases
the psychic equilibrium is not already disturbed before
treatment begins, it will certainly be upset during the
analysis, and sometimes without any interference by the
doctor. It often seems as though these patients had only
been waiting to find a trustworthy person in order to give
up and collapse. Such a loss of balance is similar in prin-
ciple to a psychotic disturbance; that is, it differs from the
initial stages of mental illness only by the fact that it leads
in the end to greater health, while the latter leads to yet
greater destruction. It is a condition of panic, a letting go
in face of apparently hopeless complications. Mostly it
was preceded by desperate efforts to master the difficulty
by force of will; then came the collapse, and the once
guiding will crumbles completely. The energy thus freed
disappears from consciousness and falls into the uncon-
scious. As a matter of fact, it is at these moments that
the first signs of unconscious activity appear. (1 am think-
ing of the example of that young man who was weak in
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : m
the head.) Obviously the energy that fell away from con-
sciousness has activated the unconscious. The immediate
result is a change of attitude. One can easily imagine that
a stronger head would have taken that vision of the stars
as a healing apparition, and would have looked upon hu-
man suffering sub specie aeternitatis, in which case his
senses would have been restored. 19
Had this happened, an apparently insurmountable ob-
stacle would have been removed. Hence I regard the loss
of balance as purposive, since it replaces a defective con-
sciousness by the automatic and instinctive activity of the
unconscious, which is aiming all the time at the creation
of a new balance and will moreover achieve this aim, pro-
vided that the conscious mind is capable of assimilating
the contents produced by the unconscious, i.e., of under-
standing and digesting them. If the unconscious simply
rides roughshod over the conscious mind, a psychotic con-
dition develops. If it can neither completely prevail nor
yet be understood, the result is a conflict that cripples all
further advance. But with this question, namely the under-
standing of the collective unconscious, we come to a for-
midable difficulty which I have made the theme of my next
chapter.
IV
Negative Attempts to Free
the Individuality from
the Collective Psyche
a. Regressive Restoration of the Persona
A collapse of the conscious attitude is no small matter.
It always feels like the end of the world, as though every-
,w Cf. Theodore Flournoy, "Aulomatisme teleologique anlisuicide:
un cas dc suicide cmpcche" par line hallucination," Archives cle
Psychologic, VIII (1907), 113-37; and Jung, "The Psychology of
Dementia Praeeox" {Collected Works, Vol. 3), pars. 304ft.
U2 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
thing had tumbled back into original chaos. One feels de-
livered up, disoriented, like a rudderless ship that is aban-
doned to the moods of the elements. So at least it seems.
In reality, however, one has fallen back upon the collective
unconscious, which now takes over the leadership. We
could multiply examples of cases where, at the critical
moment, a "saving" thought, a vision, an "inner voice,"
came with an irresistible power of conviction and gave
life a new direction. Probably we could mention just as
many cases where the collapse meant a catastrophe that
destroyed life, for at such moments morbid ideas are also
liable to take root, or ideals wither away, which is no less
disastrous. In the one case some psychic oddity develops,
or a psychosis; in the other, a state of disorientation and
demoralization. But once the unconscious contents break
through into consciousness, filling it with their uncanny
power of conviction, the question arises of how the in-
dividual will re,act. Will he be overpowered by these con-
tents? Will he credulously accept them? Or will he reject
them? (I am disregarding the ideal reaction, namely critical
understanding.) The first case signifies paranoia or schizo-
phrenia; the second may either become an eccentric with
a taste for prophecy, or he may revert to an infantile atti-
tude and be cut off from human society; the third signifies
the regressive restoration of the persona. This formulation
sounds very technical, and the reader may justifiably sup-
pose that it has something to do with a complicated psy-
chic reaction such as can be observed in the course of
analytical treatment. It would, however, be a mistake to
think that cases of this kind make their appearance only
in analytical treatment. The process can be observed just
as well, and often better, in other situations of life, namely
in all those careers where there has been some violent and
destructive intervention of fate. Every one, presumably,
has suffered adverse turns of fortune, but mostly they are
wounds that heal and leave no crippling mark. But here
we are concerned with experiences that are destructive,
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 113
that can smash a man completely or at least cripple him
for good. Let us take as an example a businessman who
takes too great a risk and consequently becomes bankrupt.
If he does not allow himself to be discouraged by this de-
pressing experience, but, undismayed, keeps his former
daring, perhaps with a little salutary caution added, his
wound will be healed without permanent injury. But if,
on the other hand, he goes to pieces, abjures all further
risks, and laboriously tries to patch up his social reputation
within the confines of a much more limited personality,
doing inferior work with the mentality of a scared child,
in a post far below him, then, technically speaking, he will
have restored his persona in a regressive way. He will as
a result of his fright have slipped back to an earlier phase
of his personality; he will have demeaned himself, pre-
tending that he is as he was before the crucial experience,
though utterly unable even to think of repeating such a
risk. Formerly perhaps he wanted more than he could
accomplish; now he does not even dare to attempt what
he has it in him to do.
Such experiences occur in every walk of life and in every
possible form, hence in psychological treatment also. Here
again it is a question of widening the personality, of taking
a risk on one's circumstances or on one's nature. What the
critical experience is in actual treatment can be seen from
the case of our philosophy student: it is the transference.
As I have already indicated, it is possible for the patient to
slip over the reef of the transference unconsciously, in
which case it does not become an experience and nothing
fundamental happens. The doctor, for the sake of mere
convenience, might well wish for such patients. But if they
are intelligent, the patients soon discover the existence of
this problem for themselves. If then the doctor, as in the
above case, is exalted into the father-lover and conse-
quently has a flood of demands let loose against him, he
must perforce think out ways and means of parrying the
onslaught, without himself getting drawn into the mael-
114 ' Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
strom and without injury to the patient. A violent rupture
of the transference may bring on a complete relapse, or
worse; so the problem must be handled with great tact and
foresight. Another possibility is the pious hope that "in
time" the "nonsense" will stop of its own accord. Cer-
tainly everything stops in time, but it may be an uncon-
scionably long time, and the difficulties may be so unbear-
able for both sides that one might as well give up the idea
of time as a healing factor at once.
A far better instrument for "combatting" the transfer-
ence would seem to be offered by the Freudian theory of
neurosis. The dependence of the patient is explained as an
infantile sexual demand that takes the place of a rational
application of sexuality. Similar advantages are offered by
the Adlerian theory, 20 which explains the transference as
an infantile power-aim, and as a "security measure." Both
theories fit the neurotic mentality so neatly that every case
of neurosis can be explained by both theories at once. 21
This highly remarkable fact, which any unprejudiced ob-
server is bound to corroborate, can only rest on the cir-
cumstance that Freud's "infantile eroticism" and Adler's
"power drive" are one and the same thing, regardless of
the clash of opinions between the two schools. It is simply
a fragment of uncontrolled, and at first uncontrollable,
primordial instinct that comes to light in the phenomenon
of transference. The archaic fantasy-forms that gradually
reach the surface of consciousness are only a further proof
of this.
We can try both theories to make the patient see how
infantile, impossible, and absurd his demands are, and
perhaps in the end he will actually come to his senses
again. My patient, however, was not the only one who did
not do this. True enough, the doctor can always save his
face with these theories and extricate himself from a pain-
» Alfred Adlcr, The Neurotic Constitution, originally published
1912, translated by H. Glucck and J. E. Lind (London, 1921).
*'Cf. "On the Psychology of the Unconscious" (Collected Works,
Vol. 7), pars. 44ft., for an example of such a case.
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 115
ful situation more or less humanely. There are indeed pa-
tients with whom it is, or seems to be, unrewarding to go
to greater lengths; but there are also cases where these
procedures cause senseless psychic injury. In the case of
my student I dimly felt something of the sort, and I there-
fore abandoned my rationalistic attempts in order — with
ill-concealed mistrust — to give nature a chance to correct
what seemed to me to be her own foolishness. As already
mentioned, this taught me something extraordinarily im-
portant, namely the existence of an unconscious self-
regulation. Not only can the unconscious "wish," it can
also cancel its own wishes. This realization, of such im-
mense importance for the integrity of the personality, must
remain sealed to anyone who cannot get over the idea that
it is simply a question of infantilism. He will turn round
on the threshold of this realization and tell himself: "It
was all nonsense of course. I am a crazy visionary! The
best thing to do would be to bury the unconscious or throw
it overboard with all its works." The meaning and purpose
he so eagerly desired he will see only as infantile maunder-
ings. He will understand that his longing was absurd; he
learns to be tolerant with himself, resigned. What can he
do? Rather than face the conflict he will turn back and, as
best he can, regressively restore his shattered persona,
discounting all those hopes and expectations that had
blossomed under the transference. He will become smaller,
more limited, more rationalistic than he was before. One
could not say that this result would be an unqualified
misfortune in all cases, for there are all too many who,
on account of their notorious ineptitude, thrive better in
a rationalistic system than in freedom. Freedom is one of
the more difficult things. Those who can stomach this way
out can say with Faust:
This earthly circle I know well enough.
Towards the Beyond the view has been cut ofT;
Fool — who directs that way his da/zled e)e,
Contrives himself a double in the sky!
u6 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
Let him look round him here, not stray beyond;
To a sound man this world must needs respond.
To roam into eternity is vain!
What he perceives, he can attain.
Thus let him walk along his earthlong day;
Though phantoms haunt him, let him go his way. 22
Such a solution would be perfect if a man were really
able to shake off the unconscious, drain it of its energy
and render it inactive. But experience shows that the un-
conscious can be deprived of its energy only in part: it
remains continually active, for it not only contains but is
itself the source of the libido from which the psychic ele-
ments flow. It is therefore a delusion to think that by some
kind of magical theory or method the unconscious can
be finally emptied of libido and thus, as it were, eliminated.
One may for a while play with this delusion, but the day
comes when one is forced to say with Faust:
But now such spectredom so throngs the air
That none knows how to dodge it, none knows where.
Though one day greet us with a rational gleam,
The night entangles us in webs of dream.
We come back happy from the fields of spring —
And a bird croaks. Croaks what? Some evil thing.
Enmeshed in superstition night and morn,
It forms and shows itself and comes to warn.
And we, so scared, stand without friend or kin,
And the door creaks — and nobody comes in. 123
Nobody, of his own free will, can strip the unconscious of
its effective power. At best, one can merely deceive oneself
on this point. For, as Goethe says:
Unheard by the outward ear
In the heart I whisper fear;
Changing shape from hour to hour
I employ my savage power. 24
* fauit, translated by Louis MacNeice (London, 195 1), p. 283
(Part II, Act V). r
* Ibid., p. 281 (Part II, Act V).
-Moid., p. 282 (Part 11, Act V), modified.
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : nj
Only one thing is effective against the unconscious, and
that is hard outer necessity. (Those with rather more
knowledge of the unconscious will see behind the outer
necessity the same face which once gazed at them from
within.) An inner necessity can change into an outer one,
and so long as the outer necessity is real, and not just
faked, psychic problems remain more or less ineffective.
This is why Mephisto offers Faust, who is sick of the "mad-
ness of magic," the following advice:
Right. There is one way that needs
No money, no physician, and no witch.
Pack up your things and get back to the land
And there begin to dig and ditch;
Keep to the narrow round, confine your mind,
And live on fodder of the simplest kind,
A beast among the beasts; and don't forget
To use your own dung on the crops you set! - 5
It is a well-known fact that the ''simple life" cannot be
faked, and therefore the unproblematical existence of a
poor man, who really is delivered over to fate, cannot be
bought by such cheap imitations. Only the man who lives
such a life not as a mere possibility, but is actually driven
to it by the necessity of his own nature, will blindly pass
over the problem of his soul, since he lacks the capacity
to grasp it. But once he has seen the Faustian problem,
the escape into the "simple life" is closed for ever. There
is of course nothing to stop him from taking a two-room
cottage in the country, or from pottering about in a garden
and eating raw turnips. But his soul laughs at the deception.
Only what is really oneself has the power to heal.
The regressive restoration of the persona is a possible
course only for the man who owes the critical failure of his
life to his own inflatedncss. With diminished personality,
he turns back to the measure he can fill. Brt in every other
case resignation and selt-bclittlement are an evasion, which
in the long run can be kept up only at the cost of neurotic
23 Ibid., p. 67 (Part I, Witch's Kitchen scene), modified.
u8 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
sickliness. From the conscious point of view of the person
concerned, his condition does not look like an evasion at
all, but seems to be due to the impossibility of coping with
the problem. Usually he is a lonely figure, with little or
nothing to help him in our present-day culture. Even
psychology has only purely reductive interpretations to
offer, since it inevitably underlines the archaic and infantile
character of these transitional states and makes them un-
acceptable to him. The fact that a medical theory may also
serve the purpose of enabling the doctor to pull his own
head more or less elegantly out of the noose does not occur
to him. That is precisely why these reductive theories fit
the essence of neurosis so beautifully — because they are
of such great service to the doctor.
b. Identification with the Collective Psyche
The second way leads to identification with the collective
psyche. This would amount to an acceptance of inflation,
but now exalted into a system. That is to say, one would
be the fortunate possessor of the great truth which was
only waiting to be discovered, of the eschatological knowl-
edge which spells the healing of the nations. This attitude
is not necessarily megalomania in direct form, but in the
milder and more familiar form of prophetic inspiration
and desire for martyrdom. For weak-minded persons, who
as often as not possess more than their fair share of ambi-
tion, vanity, and misplaced naivete, the danger of yielding
to this temptation is very great. Access to the collective
psyche means a renewal of life for the individual, no matter
whether this renewal is felt as pleasant or unpleasant.
Everybody would like to hold fast to this renewal: one
man because it enhances his life-feeling, another because
it promises a rich harvest of knowledge, a third because he
has discovered the key that will transform his whole life.
Therefore all those who do not wish to deprive themselves
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : ng
of the great treasures that lie buried in the collective psyche
will strive by every means possible to maintain their newly
won connection with the primal source of life. 26 Identifica-
tion would seem to be the shortest road to this, for the
dissolution of the persona in the collective psyche positively
invites one to wed oneself with the abyss and blot out all
memory in its embrace. This piece of mysticism is innate
in all better men as the "longing for the mother," the
nostalgia for the source from which we came.
As I have shown in my book on libido [Symbols of
Transformation (Collected Works, Vol. 5)], there lie at
the root of the regressive longing, which Freud conceives
as "infantile fixation" or the "incest wish," a specific value
and a specific need which are made explicit in myths. It is
precisely the strongest and best among men, the heroes,
who give way to their regressive longing and purposely
expose themselves to the danger of being devoured by the
monster of the maternal abyss. But if a man is a hero, he
is a hero because, in the final reckoning, he did not let
the monster devour him, but subdued it, not once but
many times. Victory over the collective psyche alone yields
the true value — the capture of the hoard, the invincible
weapon, the magic talisman, or whatever it be that the
myth deems most desirable. Anyone who identifies with
the collective psyche — or, in mythological terms, lets him-
self be devoured by the monster — and vanishes in it, attains
the treasure that the dragon guards, but he does so in spite
of himself and to his own greatest harm.
Probably no one who was conscious of the absurdity of
this identification would have the courage to make a prin-
ciple of it. But the danger is that very many people lack
38 1 would like to call attention here to an interesting remark of
Kant's. In his lectures on psychology (Vorlesungen ilber Psychologie,
Leipzig, 1889) he speaks of the "treasure lying within the field of
dim representations, that deep abyss of human knowledge forever
beyond our reach." This treasure, as I have demonstrated in my
Symbols of Transformation (Collected Works, Vol. 5), is the ag-
gregate of all those primordial images in which the libido is invested,
or rather, which are self-representations of the libido.
120 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
the necessary humour, or else it fails them at this partic-
ular juncture; they are seized by a sort of pathos, every-
thing seems pregnant with meaning, and all effective self-
criticism is checked. I would not deny in general the exist-
ence of genuine prophets, but in the name of caution I
would begin by doubting each individual case; for it is
far too serious a matter for us lightly to accept a man as a
genuine prophet. Every respectable prophet strives man-
fully against the unconscious pretensions of his role. When
therefore a prophet appears at a moment's notice, we would
be better advised to contemplate a possible psychic dis-
equilibrium.
But besides the possibility of becoming a prophet, there
is another alluring joy, subtler and apparently more legiti-
mate: the joy of becoming a prophet's disciple. This, for
the vast majority of people, is an altogether ideal tech-
nique. Its advantages are: the odium dignitatis, the super-
human responsibility of the prophet, turns into the so
much sweeter otium indignitatis. The disciple is unworthy;
modestly he sits at the Master's feet and guards against
having ideas of his own. Mental laziness becomes a virtue;
one can at least bask in the sun of a semidivine being. He
can enjoy the archaism and infantilism of his unconscious
fantasies without loss to himself, for all responsibility is
laid at the Master's door. Through his deification of the
Master, the disciple, apparently without noticing it, waxes
in stature; moreover, does he not possess the great truth
— not his own discovery, of course, but received straight
from the Master's hands? Naturally the disciples always
stick together, not out of love, but for the very under-
standable purpose of effortlessly confirming their own
convictions by engendering an air of collective agreement.
Now this is an identification with the collective psyche
that seems altogether more commendable: somebody else
has the honour of being a prophet, but also the dangerous
responsibility. For one's own part, one is a mere disciple,
but nonetheless a joint guardian of the great treasure
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 121
which the Master has found. One feels the full dignity and
burden of such a position, deeming it a solemn duty and
a moral necessity to revile others not of a like mind, to
enrol proselytes and to hold up a light to the Gentiles,
exactly as though one were the prophet oneself. And
these people, who creep about behind an apparently modest
persona, are the very ones who, when inflated by identifica-
tion with the collective psyche, suddenly burst upon the
world scene. For, just as the prophet is a primordial image
from the collective psyche, so also is the disciple of the
prophet.
In both cases inflation is brought about by the collective
unconscious, and the independence of the individuality
suffers injury. But since by no means all individualities
have the strength to be independent, the disciple-fantasy
is perhaps the best ihey can accomplish. The gratifications
of the accompanying inflation at least do something to
make up for the loss of spiritual freedom. Nor should we
underestimate the fact that the life of a real or imagined
prophet is full of sorrows, disappointments, and priva-
tions, so that the hosanna-shouting band of disciples has
the value of a compensation. All this is so humanly under-
standable that it would be a matter for astonishment if it
led to any further destination whatever.
Part Two
Individuation
I
The Function of the Unconscious
There is a destination, a possible goal, beyond the alter-
native stages dealt with in our last chapter. That is the
way of individuation. Individuation means becoming an
"in-dividual," and, in so far as "individuality" embraces our
innermost, last, and incomparable uniqueness, it also im-
plies becoming one's own self. We could therefore translate
122 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
individuation as "coming to selfhood" or "self-realization.'*
The possibilities of development discussed in the preced-
ing chapters were, at bottom, alienations of the self, ways
of divesting the self of its reality in favour of an external
role or in favour of an imagined meaning. In the former
case the self retires into the background and gives place to
social recognition; in the latter, to the auto-suggestive
meaning of a primordial image. In both cases the collective
has the upper hand. Self-alienation in favour of the col-
lective corresponds to a social ideal; it even passes for
social duty and virtue, although it can also be misused
for egotistical purposes. Egoists are called "selfish," but
this, naturally, has nothing to do with the concept of "self"
as I am using it here. On the other hand, self-realization
seems to stand in opposition to self-alienation. This mis-
understanding is quite general, because we do not suffi-
ciently distinguish between individualism and individuation.
Individualism means deliberately stressing and giving prom-
inence to some supposed peculiarity rather than to collec-
tive considerations and obligations. But individuation means
precisely the better and more complete fulfilment of the
collective qualities of the human being, since adequate
consideration of the peculiarity of the individual is more
conducive to a better social performance than when the
peculiarity is neglected or suppressed. The idiosyncrasy of
an individual is not to be understood as any strangeness
in his substance or in his components, but rather as a
unique combination, or gradual differentiation, of functions
and faculties which in themselves are universal. Every
human face has a nose, two eyes, etc., but these universal
factors are variable, and it is this variability which makes
individual peculiarities possible. Individuation, therefore,
can only mean a process of psychological development that
fulfils the individual qualities given; in other words, it is a
process by which a man becomes the definite, unique being
he in fact is. In so doing he does not become "selfish" in
the ordinary sense of the word, but is merely fulfilling the
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 123
peculiarity of his nature, and this, as we have said, is vastly
different from egotism or individualism.
Now in so far as the human individual, as a living unit, is
composed of purely universal factors, he is wholly collec-
tive and therefore in no sense opposed to collectivity.
Hence the individualistic emphasis on one's own peculiarity
is a contradiction of this basic fact of the living being. In-
dividuation, on the other hand, aims at a living co-opera-
tion of all factors. But since the universal factors always
appear only in individual form, a full consideration of
them will also produce an individual effect, and one which
cannot be surpassed by anything else, least of all by in-
dividualism.
The aim of individuation is nothing less than to divest
the self of the false wrappings of the persona on the one
hand, and of the suggestive power of primordial images on
the other. From what has been said in the previous chapters
it should be sufficiently clear what the persona means psy-
chologically. But when we turn to the other side, namely to
the influence of the collective unconscious, we find we are
moving in a dark interior world that is vastly more difficult
to understand than the psychology of the persona, which
is accessible to everyone. Everyone knows what is meant
by "putting on official airs" or "playing a social role."
Through the persona a man tries to appear as this or that,
or he hides behind a mask, or he may even build up a
definite persona as a barricade. So the problem of the per-
sona should present no great intellectual difficulties.
It is, however, another thing to describe, in a way that
can be generally understood, those subtle inner processes
which invade the conscious mind with such suggestive
force. Perhaps we can best portray these influences with
the help of examples of mental illness, creative inspiration,
and religious conversion. A most excellent account — taken
from life, so to speak — of such an inner transformation is
to be found in H. G. Wells' Christina Alberta" s Father,
Changes of a similar kind are described in Leon Daudet's
124 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
eminently readable L'Heredo. A wide range of material is
contained in William James' Varieties of Religious Experi-
ence. Although in many cases of this kind there are certain
external factors which either directly condition the change,
or at least provide the occasion for it, yet it is not always
the case that the external factor offers a sufficient explana-
tion of these changes of personality. We must recognize
the fact that they can also arise from subjective inner
causes, opinions, convictions, where external stimuli play
no part at all, or a very insignificant one. In pathological
changes of personality this can even be said to be the rule.
The cases of psychosis that present a clear and simple
reaction to some overwhelming outside event belong to the
exceptions. Hence, for psychiatry, the essential aetiological
factor is the inherited or acquired pathological disposition.
The same is probably true of most creative intuitions, for
we are hardly likely to suppose a purely causal connection
between the falling apple and Newton's theory of gravita-
tion. Similarly all religious conversions that cannot be
traced back directly to suggestion and contagious example
rest upon independent interior processes culminating in a
change of personality. As a rule these processes have the
peculiarity of being subliminal, i.e., unconscious, in the
first place and of reaching consciousness only gradually.
The moment of irruption can, however, be very sudden, so
that consciousness is instantaneously flooded with extremely
strange and apparently quite unsuspected contents. That is
how it looks to the layman and even to the person con-
cerned, but the experienced observer knows that psy-
chological events are never sudden. In reality the irruption
has been preparing for many years, often for half a life-
time, and already in childhood all sorts of remarkable signs
could have been detected which, in more or less symbolic
fashion, hinted at abnormal future developments. I am
reminded, for instance, of a mental case who refused all
nourishment and created quite extraordinary difficulties in
connection with nasal feeding. In fact an anaesthetic was
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 123
necessary before the tube could be inserted. The patient
was able in some remarkable way to swallow his tongue
by pressing it back into the throat, a fact that was quite
new and unknown to me at the time. In a lucid interval I
obtained the following history from the man. As a boy
he had often revolved in his mind the idea of how he could
take his life, even if every conceivable measure were em-
ployed to prevent him. He first tried to do it by holding
his breath, until he found that by the time he was in a semi-
conscious state he had already begun to breathe again. So
he gave up these attempts and thought: perhaps it would
work if he refused food. This fantasy satisfied him until
he discovered that food could be poured into him through
the nasal cavity. He therefore considered how this entrance
might be closed, and thus it was that he hit upon the idea
of pressing his tongue backwards. At first he was unsuccess-
ful, and so he began a regular training, until at last he
succeeded in swallowing his tongue in much the same way
as sometimes happens accidentally during anaesthesia,
evidently in his case by artificially relaxing the muscles at
the root of the tongue.
In this strange manner the boy paved the way for his
future psychosis. After the second attack he became in-
curably insane. This is only one example among many
others, but it suffices to show how the subsequent, appar-
ently sudden irruption of alien contents is really not sud-
den at all, but is rather the result of an unconscious devel-
opment that has been going on for years.
The great question now is: in what do these unconscious
processes consist? And how are they constituted? Naturally,
so long as they are unconscious, nothing can be said about
them. But sometimes they manifest themselves, partly
through symptoms, partly through actions, opinions, affects,
fantasies, and dreams. Aided by such observational mate-
rial we can draw indirect conclusions as to the momentary
state and constitution of the unconscious processes and
their development. We should not, however, labour under
126 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
the illusion that we have now discovered the real nature
of the unconscious processes. We never succeed in getting
further than the hypothetical "as if."
"No mortal mind can plumb the depths of nature" — nor
even the depths of the unconscious. We do know, however,
that the unconscious never rests. It seems to be always at
work, for even when asleep we dream. There are many
people who declare that they never dream, but the prob-
ability is that they simply do not remember their dreams.
It is significant that people who talk in their sleep mostly
have no recollection either of the dream which started them
talking, or even of the fact that they dreamed at all. Not
a day passes but we make some slip of the tongue, or
something slips our memory which at other times we know
perfectly well, or we are seized by a mood whose cause
we cannot trace, etc. These things are all symptoms of
some consistent unconscious activity which becomes di-
rectly visible at night in dreams, but only occasionally
breaks through the inhibitions imposed by our daytime
consciousness.
So far as our present experience goes, we can lay it
down that the unconscious processes stand in a compensa-
tory relation to the conscious mind. I expressly use the word
"compensatory" and not the word "contrary" because con-
scious and unconscious are not necessarily in opposition to
one another, but complement one another to form a totality,
which is the self. According to this definition the self is a
quantity that is supraordinate to the conscious ego. It
embraces not only the conscious but also the unconscious
psyche, and is therefore, so to speak, a personality which
we also are. It is easy enough to think of ourselves as
possessing part-souls. Thus we can, for instance, see our-
selves as a persona without too much difficulty. But it
transcends our powers of imagination to form a clear pic-
ture of what we are as a self, for in this operation the part
would have to comprehend the whole. There is little hope
of our ever being able to reach even approximate con-
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 12 7
sciousness of the self, since however much we may make
conscious there will always exist an indeterminate and
indeterminable amount of unconscious material which be-
longs to the totality of the self. Hence the self will always
remain a supraordinate quantity.
The unconscious processes that compensate the conscious
ego contain all those elements that are necessary for the
self-regulation of the psyche as a whole. On the personal
level, these are the not consciously recognized personal
motives which appear in dreams, or the meanings of daily
situations which we have overlooked, or conclusions we
have failed to draw, or affects we have not permitted, or
criticisms we have spared ourselves. But the more we be-
come conscious of ourselves through self-knowledge, and
act accordingly, the more the layer of the personal un-
conscious that is superimposed on the collective uncon-
scious will be diminished. In this way there arises a con-
sciousness which is no longer imprisoned in the petty,
oversensitive, personal world of the ego, but participates
freely in the wider world of objective interests. This wid-
ened consciousness is no longer that touchy, egotistical
bundle of personal wishes, fears, hopes, and ambitions
which always has to be compensated or corrected by un-
conscious counter-tendencies; instead, it is a function of
relationship to the world of objects, bringing the individ-
ual into absolute, binding, and indissoluble communion
with the world at large. The complications arising at this
stage are no longer egotistic wish-conflicts, but difficulties
that concern others as much as oneself. At this stage it is
fundamentally a question of collective problems, which
have activated the collective unconscious because they
require collective rather than personal compensation. We
can now see that the unconscious produces contents which
are valid not only for the person concerned, but for others
as well, in fact for a great many people and possibly for
all.
The Elgonyi, natives of the Elgon forests, of central
128 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
Africa, explained to me that there are two kinds of dreams:
the ordinary dream of the little man, and the "big vision"
that only the great man has, e.g., the medicine-man or
chief. Little dreams are of no account, but if a man has a
"big dream" he summons the whole tribe in order to tell it
to everybody.
How is a man to know whether his dream is a "big" or a
"little" one? He knows it by an instinctive feeling of signifi-
cance. He feels so overwhelmed by the impression it makes
that he would never think of keeping the dream to himself.
He has to tell it, on the psychologically correct assumption
that it is of general significance. Even with us the collective
dream has a feeling of importance about it that impels
communication. It springs from a conflict of relationship
and must therefore be built into our conscious relations,
because it compensates these and not just some inner per-
sonal quirk.
The processes of the collective unconscious are con-
cerned not only with the more or less personal relations
of an individual to his family or to a wider social group, but
with his relations to society and to the human community
in general. The more general and impersonal the condition
that releases the unconscious reaction, the more significant,
bizarre, and overwhelming will be the compensatory mani-
festation. It impels not just private communication, but
drives people to revelations and confessions, and even to a
dramatic representation of their fantasies.
I will explain by an example how the unconscious man-
ages to compensate relationships. A somewhat arrogant
gentleman once came to me for treatment. He ran a busi-
ness in partnership with his younger brother. Relations be-
tween the two brothers were very strained, and this was
one of the essential causes of my patient's neurosis. From
the information he gave me, the real reason for the tension
was not altogether clear. He had all kinds of criticisms to
make of his brother, whose gifts he certainly did not show
in a very favourable light. The' brother frequently came
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 129
into his dreams, always in the role of a Bismarck, Napo-
leon, or Julius Caesar. His house looked like the Vatican
or Yildiz Kiosk. My patient's unconscious evidently had
the need to exalt the rank of the younger brother. From this
I concluded that he was setting himself too high and his
brother too low. The further course of analysis entirely
justified this inference.
Another patient, a young woman who clung to her
mother in an extremely sentimental way, always had very
sinister dreams about her. She appeared in the dreams as a
witch, as a ghost, as a pursuing demon. The mother had
spoilt her beyond all reason and had so blinded her by
tenderness that the daughter had no conscious idea of her
mother's harmful influence. Hence the compensatory crit-
icism exercised by the unconscious.
I myself once happened to put too low a value on a
patient, both intellectually and morally. In a dream I
saw a castle perched on a high cliff, and on the topmost
tower was a balcony, and there sat my patient. I did not
hesitate to tell her this dream at once, naturally with the
best results.
We all know how apt we are to make fools of ourselves
in front of the very people we have unjustly underrated.
Naturally the case can also be reversed, as once happened
to a friend of mine. While still a callow student he had
written to Virchow, the pathologist, craving an audience
with "His Excellency." When, quaking with fear, he pre-
sented himself and tried to give his name, he blurted out,
"My name is Virchow." Whereupon His Excellency, smil-
ing mischievously, said, "Ah! So your name is Virchow
too?" The feeling of his own nullity was evidently too much
for the unconscious of my friend, and in consequence it
instantly prompted him to present himself as equal to Vir-
chow in grandeur.
In these more personal relations there is of course no
need for any very collective compensations. On the other
hand, the figures employed by the unconscious in our first
ijo : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
case are of a definitely collective nature: they are univer-
sally recognized heroes. Here there are two possible inter-
pretations: either my patient's younger brother is a man
of acknowledged and far-reaching collective importance,
or my patient is overestimating his own importance not
merely in relation to his brother but in relation to every-
body else as well. For the first assumption there was no
support at all, while for the second there was the evidence
of one's own eyes. Since the man's extreme arrogance af-
fected not only himself, but a far wider social group, the
compensation availed itself of a collective image.
The same is true of the second case. The "witch" is a
collective image; hence we must conclude that the blind
dependence of the young woman applied as much to the
wider social group as it did to her mother personally. This
was indeed the case, in so far as she was still living in an
exclusively infantile world, where the world was identical
with her parents. These examples deal with relations within
the personal orbit. There are, however, impersonal relations
which occasionally need unconscious compensation. In
such cases collective images appear with a more or less
mythological character. Moral, philosophical, and religious
problems are, on account of their universal validity, the
most likely to call for mythological compensation. In
the aforementioned novel by H. G. Wells we find a classical
type of compensation: Mr. Preemby, a midget personality,
discovers that he is really a reincarnation of Sargon, King
of Kings. Happily, the genius of the author rescues poor
old Sargon from pathological absurdity, and even gives the
reader a chance to appreciate the tragic and eternal mean-
ing in this lamentable affray. Mr. Preemby, a complete
nonentity, recognizes himself as the point of intersection of
all ages past and future. This knowledge is not too dearly
bought at the cost of a little madness, provided that Pre-
emby is not in the end devoured by that monster of a
primordial image — which is in fact what nearly happens to
him.
The universal problem of evil and sin is another aspect
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 131
of our impersonal relations to the world. Almost more than
any other, therefore, this problem produces collective com-
pensations. One of my patients, aged sixteen, had as the
initial symptom of a severe compulsion neurosis the fol-
lowing dream: He is walking along an unfamiliar street.
It is dark, and he hears steps coming behind him. With a
feeling of fear he quickens his pace. The footsteps come
nearer, and his fear increases. He begins to run. But the
footsteps seem to be overtaking him. Finally he turns
round, and there he sees the devil. In deathly terror he
leaps into the air and hangs there suspended. This dream
was repeated twice, a sign of its special urgency.
It is a notorious fact that the compulsion neuroses, by
reason of their meticulousness and ceremonial punctilio,
not only have the surface appearance of a moral problem
but are indeed brim-full of inhuman beastliness and ruth-
less evil, against the integration of which the very delicately
organized personality puts up a desperate struggle. This
explains why so many things have to be performed in
ceremonially "correct" style, as though to counteract the
evil hovering in the background. After this dream the
neurosis started, and its essential feature was that the pa-
tient had, as he put it, to keep himself in a "provisional" or
"uncontaminated" state of purity. For this purpose he
either severed or made "invalid" all contact with the world
and with everything that reminded him of the transitoriness
of human existence, by means of lunatic formalities, scru-
pulous cleansing ceremonies, and the anxious observance of
innumerable rules and regulations of an unbelievable com-
plexity. Even before the patient had any suspicion of the
hellish existence that lay before him, the dream showed
him that if he wanted to come down to earth again there
would have to be a pact with evil.
Elsewhere I have described a dream that illustrates the
compensation of a religious problem in a young theological
student. 27 He was involved in all sorts of difficulties of
** "Archetypes of the Collective Unconscious" (Collected Works, Vol.
9-i), par. 71.
IJ2 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
belief, a not uncommon occurrence in the man of today.
In his dream he was the pupil of the "white magician,"
who, however, was dressed in black. After having instructed
him up to a certain point, the white magician told him
that they now needed the "black magician." The black
magician appeared, but clad in a white robe. He declared
that he had found the keys of paradise, but needed the
wisdom of the white magician in order to understand how
to use them. This dream obviously contains the problem
of opposites which, as we know, has" found in Taoist
philosophy a solution very different from the views pre-
vailing in the West. The figures employed by the dream
are impersonal collective images corresponding to the na-
ture of the impersonal religious problem. In contrast to
the Christian view, the dream stresses the relativity of
good and evil in a way that immediately calls to mind the
Taoist symbol of Yin and Yang.
We should certainly not conclude from these compensa-
tions that, as the conscious mind becomes more deeply
engrossed in universal problems, the unconscious will
bring forth correspondingly far-reaching compensations.
There is what one might call a legitimate and an illegitimate
interest in impersonal problems. Excursions of this kind
are legitimate only when they arise from the deepest and
truest needs of the individual; illegitimate when they are
either mere intellectual curiosity or a flight from unpleasant
reality. In the latter case the unconscious produces all too
human and purely personal compensations, whose manifest
aim is to bring the conscious mind back to ordinary reality.
People who go illegitimately mooning after the infinite
often have absurdly banal dreams which endeavour to
damp down their ebullience. Thus, from the nature of the
compensation, we can at once draw conclusions as to the
seriousness and Tightness of the conscious strivings.
There are certainly not a few people who are afraid to
admit that the unconscious could ever have "big" ideas.
They will object, "But do you really believe that the un-
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 133
conscious is capable of offering anything like a constructive
criticism of our Western mentality?" Of course, if we take
the problem intellectually and impute rational intentions to
the unconscious, the thing becomes absurd. But it would
never do to foist our conscious psychology upon the un-
conscious. Its mentality is an instinctive one; it has no
differentiated functions, and it does not "think" as we
understand "thinking." It simply creates an image that an-
swers to the conscious situation. This image contains as
much thought as feeling, and is anything rather than a
product of rationalistic reflection. Such an image would
be better described as an artist's vision. We tend to forget
that a problem like the one which underlies the dream last
mentioned cannot, even to the conscious mind of the
dreamer, be an intellectual problem, but is profoundly
emotional. For a moral man the ethical problem is a
passionate question which has its roots in the deepest in-
stinctual processes as well as in his most idealistic aspira-
tions. The problem for him is devastatingly real. It is not
surprising, therefore, that the answer likewise springs from
the depths of his nature. The fact that everyone thinks
his psychology is the measure of all things, and, if he also
happens to be a fool, will inevitably think that such a
problem is beneath his notice, should not trouble the psy-
chologist in the least, for he has to take things objectively,
as he finds them, without twisting them to fit his sub-
jective suppositions. The richer and more capacious natures
may legitimately be gripped by an impersonal problem, and
to the extent that this is so, their unconscious can answer
in the same style. And just as the conscious mind can put
the question, "Why is there this frightful conflict between
good and evil?," so the unconscious can reply, "Look
closer! Each needs the other. The best, just because it is
the best, holds the seed of evil, and there is nothing so bad
but good can come of it."
It might then dawn on the dreamer that the apparently
insoluble conflict is, perhaps, a prejudice, a frame of mind
134 • Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
conditioned by time and place. The seemingly complex
dream-image might easily reveal itself as plain, instinctive
common sense, as the tiny germ of a rational idea, which
a maturer mind could just as well have thought con-
sciously. At all events Chinese philosophy thought of it
ages ago. The singularly apt, plastic configuration of
thought is the prerogative of that primitive, natural spirit
which is alive in all of us and is only obscured by a one-
sided conscious development. If we consider the uncon-
scious compensations from this angle, we might justifiably
be accused of judging the unconscious too much from the
conscious standpoint. And indeed, in pursuing these reflec-
tions, I have always started from the view that the un-
conscious simply reacts to the conscious contents, albeit in
a very significant way, but that it lacks initiative. It is,
however, far from my intention to give the impression
that the unconscious is merely reactive in all cases. On
the contrary, there is a host of experiences which seem to
prove that the unconscious is not only spontaneous but
can actually take the lead. There are innumerable cases
of people who lingered on in a pettifogging unconscious-
ness, only to become neurotic in the end. Thanks to the
neurosis contrived by the unconscious, they are shaken out
of their apathy, and this in spite of their own laziness and
often desperate resistance.
Yet it would, in my view, be wrong to suppose that in
such cases the unconscious is working to a deliberate and
concerted plan and is striving to realize certain definite
ends. I have found nothing to support this assumption. The
driving force, so far as it is possible for us to grasp it,
seems to be in essence only an urge towards self-realization.
If it were a matter of some general teleological plan, then
all individuals who enjoy a surplus of unconsciousness
would necessarily be driven towards higher consciousness
by an irresistible urge. That is plainly not the case. There
are vast masses of the population who, despite their notori-
ous unconsciousness, never get anywhere near a neurosis.
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 13s
The few who are smitten by such a fate are really persons
of the "higher" type who, for one reason or another, have
remained too long on a primitive level. Their nature does
not in the long run tolerate persistence in what is for them
an unnatural torpor. As a result of their narrow conscious
outlook and their cramped existence they save energy; bit
by bit it accumulates in the unconscious and finally ex-
plodes in the form of a more or less acute neurosis. This
simple mechanism does not necessarily conceal a <k plan."
A perfectly understandable urge towards self-realization
would provide a quite satisfactory explanation. We could
also speak of a retarded maturation of the personality.
Since it is highly probable that we are still a long way
from the summit of absolute consciousness, presumably
everyone is capable of wider consciousness, and we may
assume accordingly that the unconscious processes are
constantly supplying us with contents which, if consciously
recognized, would extend the range of consciousness.
Looked at in this way, the unconscious appears as a field of
experience of unlimited extent. If it were merely reactive
to the conscious mind, we might aptly call it a psychic
mirror-world. In that case, the real source of all contents
and activities would lie in the conscious mind, and there
would be absolutely nothing in the unconscious except
the distorted reflections of conscious contents. The creative
process would be shut up in the conscious mind, and any-
thing new would be nothing but conscious invention or
cleverness. The empirical facts give the lie to this. Every
creative man knows that spontaneity is the very essence of
creative thought. Because the unconscious is not just a
reactive mirror-reflection, but an independent, productive
activity, its realm of experience is a self-contained world,
having its own reality, of which we can only say that it
affects us as we affect it — precisely what we say about
our experience of the outer world. And just as material
objects are the constituent elements of this world, so psy-
chic factors constitute the objects of that other world.
Ij6 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
The idea of psychic objectivity is by no means a new
discovery. It is in fact one of the earliest and most universal
acquisitions of humanity: it is nothing less than the con-
viction as to the concrete existence of a spirit-world. The
spirit-world was certainly never an invention in the sense
that fire-boring was an invention; it was far rather the
experience, the conscious acceptance of a reality in no
way inferior to that of the material world. I doubt whether
primitives exist anywhere who are not acquainted with
magical influence or a magical substance. ("Magical" is
simply another word for "psychic") It would also appear
that practically all primitives are aware of the existence of
spirits. 28 "Spirit" is a psychic fact. Just as we distinguish
our own bodiliness from bodies that are strange to us, so
primitives — if they have any notion of "souls" at all —
distinguish between their own souls and the spirits, which
are felt as strange and as "not belonging." They are ob-
jects of outward perception, whereas their own soul (or
one of several souls where a plurality is assumed), though
believed to be essentially akin to the spirits, is not usually
an object of so-called sensible perception. After death
the soul (or one of the plurality of souls) becomes a spirit
which survives the dead man, and often it shows a marked
deterioration of character that partly contradicts the notion
of personal immortality. The Bataks, 29 of Sumatra, go so
far as to assert that the people who were good in this life
turn into malign and dangerous spirits. Nearly everything
that the primitives say about the tricks which the spirits
play on the living, and the general picture they give of the
revenants, corresponds down to the last detail with the-
phenomena established by spiritualistic experience. And
just as the communications from the "Beyond" can be
28 In cases of reports to the contrary, it must always be borne in
mind that the fear of spirits is sometimes so great that people will
actually deny that there are any spirits to fear. 1 have come across
this myself among the dwellers on Mount Elgon.
111 Joh. Warnecke, "Die Religion der Balak," in Julius Boehmen,
ed., Religions-Urkunden der Volker (Leipzig, 1909), Part IV, Vol. I.
Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious : 137
seen to be the activities of broken-off bits of the psyche, so
these primitive spirits are manifestations of unconscious
complexes. 30 The importance that modern psychology at-
taches to the "parental complex" is a direct continuation
of primitive man's experience of the dangerous power of
the ancestral spirits. Even the error of judgment which
leads him unthinkingly to assume that the spirits are real-
ities of the external world is carried on in our assumption
(which is only partially correct) that the real parents are
responsible for the parental complex. In the old trauma
theory of Freudian psychoanalysis, and in other quarters
as well, this assumption even passed for a scientific ex-
planation. (It was in order to avoid this confusion that I
advocated the term "parental imago.") 31
The simple soul is of course quite unaware of the fact
that his nearest relations, who exercise immediate influence
over him, create in him an image which is only partly a
replica of themselves, while its other part is compounded
of elements derived from himself. The imago is built up
of parental influences plus the specific reactions of the
child; it is therefore an image that reflects the object with
very considerable qualifications. Naturally, the simple soul
believes that his parents are as he sees them. The image is
unconsciously projected, and when the parents die, the
projected image goes on working as though it were a spirit
existing on its own. The primitive then speaks of parental
spirits who return by night (revenants), while the mod-
ern man calls it a father or mother complex.
The more limited a man's field of consciousness is, the
more numerous the psychic contents (imagos) which meet
him as quasi-external apparitions, either in the form of
spirits, or as magical potencies projected upon living people
3 "Cf. "The Psychological Foundations of Belief in Spirits," in The
Structure ami Dynamics of the Psyche (Collected IVoiks, Vol. 8).
;,i [This term was taken up by psychoanalysis, but in analytical psy-
chology it has been largely replaced by "primordial image of the
parent" or "parental archetype." — Editors of The Collected
Works.]
ij8 : Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
(magicians, witches, etc.). At a rather higher stage of de-
velopment, where the idea of the soul already exists, not all
the imagos continue to be projected (where this happens,
even trees and stones talk), but one or the other complex
has come near enough to consciousness to be felt as no
longer strange, but as somehow "belonging." Nevertheless,
the feeling that it "belongs" is not at first sufficiently strong
for the complex to be sensed as a subjective content of
consciousness. It remains in a sort of no man's land be-
tween conscious and unconscious, in the half-shadow, in
part belonging or akin to the conscious subject, in part an
autonomous being, and meeting consciousness as such. At
all events it is not necessarily obedient to the subject's
intentions, it may even be of a higher order, more often
than not a source of inspiration or warning, or of "super-
natural" information. Psychologically such a content could
be explained as a partly autonomous complex that is not
yet fully integrated. The archaic souls, the ba and ka of the
Egyptians, are complexes of this kind. At a still higher level,
and particularly among the civilized peoples of the West,
this complex is invariably of the feminine gender — anima
and i/nr^/ — a fact for which deeper and cogent reasons are
not lacking.
M6M
A ion: Phenomenology of the Self 1
I
The Ego
Investigation of the psychology of the unconscious con-
fronted me with facts which required the formulation of
new concepts. One of these concepts is the self. The entity
so denoted is not meant to take the place of the one that
has always been known as the ego, but includes it in a
supraordinate concept. We understand the ego as the com-
plex factor to which all conscious contents are related. It
forms, as it were, the centre of the field of consciousness;
and, in so far as this comprises the empirical personality
the ego is the subject of all personal acts of consciousness.
The relation of a psychic content to the ego forms the
criterion of its consciousness, for no content can be con-
scious unless it is represented to a subject.
With this definition we have described and delimited
the scope of the subject. Theoretically, no limits can be
1 From A ion: Researches into the Phenomenology of the Self. Col-
lected Works, Vol. 9ii, pars. 1-42; translated from the first part of
A ion: Untersnchnngen zur Sytnbolgeschichte (Psychologische Ab-
handlungen, VI11; Zurich, Rascher Verlag, 1951).
139
140 : A ion
set to the field of consciousness, since it is capable of
indefinite extension. Empirically, however, it always finds
its limit when it comes up against the unknown. This con-
sists of everything we do not know, which, therefore, is
not related to the ego as the centre of the field of con-
sciousness. The unknown falls into two groups of objects:
those which are outside and can be experienced by the
senses, and those which are inside and are experienced im-
mediately. The first group comprises the unknown in the
outer world; the second the unknown in the inner world.
We call this latter territory the unconscious.
The ego, as a specific content of consciousness, is not
a simple or elementary factor but a complex one which,
as such, cannot be described exhaustively. Experience shows
that it rests on two seemingly different bases: the somatic
and the psychic. The somatic basis is inferred from the
totality of endosomatic perceptions, which for their part
are already of a psychic nature and are associated with
the ego, and are therefore conscious. They are produced
by endosomatic stimuli, only some of which cross the
threshold of consciousness. A considerable proportion of
these stimuli occur unconsciously, that is, subliminally.
The fact that they are subliminal does not necessarily mean
that their status is merely physiological, any more than this
would be true of a psychic content. Sometimes they are
capable of crossing the threshold, that is, of becoming
perceptions. But there is no doubt that a large proportion
of these endosomatic stimuli are simply incapable of con-
sciousness and are so elementary that there is no reason
to assign them a psychic nature — unless of course one
favours the philosophical view that all life-processes are
psychic anyway. The chief objection to this hardly demon-
strable hypothesis is that it enlarges the concept of the
psyche beyond ail bounds and interprets the life-process in
a way not absolutely warranted by the facts. Concepts that
are too broad usually prove to be unsuitable instruments
because they are too vague and nebulous. I have therefore
Phenomenology of the Self : 141
suggested that the term "psychic" be used only where there
is evidence of a will capable of modifying reflex or instinc-
tual processes. Here I must refer the reader to my paper
"On the Nature of the Psyche," 2 where I have discussed
this definition of the "psychic" at somewhat greater length.
The somatic basis of the ego consists, then, of con-
scious and unconscious factors. The same is true of the
psychic basis: on the one hand the ego rests on the total
field of consciousness, and on the other, on the sum total
of unconscious contents. These fall into three groups: first,
temporarily subliminal contents that can be reproduced
voluntarily (memory); second, unconscious contents that
cannot be reproduced voluntarily; third, contents that are
not capable of becoming conscious at all. Group two can
be inferred from the spontaneous irruption of subliminal
contents into consciousness. Group three is hypothetical;
it is a logical inference from the facts underlying group
two. It contains contents which have not yet irrupted into
consciousness, or which never will.
When I said that the ego "rests" on the total field of
consciousness I do not mean that it consists of this. Were
that so, it would be indistinguishable from the field of
consciousness as a whole. The ego is only the lattefs point
of reference, grounded on and limited by the somatic fac-
tor described above.
Although its bases are in themselves relatively unknown
and unconscious, the ego is a conscious factor par ex-
cellence. It is even acquired, empirically speaking, during
the individual's lifetime. It seems to arise in the first place
from the collision between the somatic factor and the en-
vironment, and, once established as a subject, it goes on
developing from further collisions with the outer world
and the inner.
Despite the unlimited extent of its bases, the ego is
never more and never less than consciousness as a whole.
As a conscious factor the ego could, theoretically at least,
"Collected Works, Vol. 8, pars. 37 iff.
142 : A ion
be described completely. But this would never amount to
more than a picture of the conscious personality; all those
features which are unknown or unconscious to the subject
would be missing. A total picture would have to include
these. But a total ^description of the personality is, even in
theory, absolutely impossible, because the unconscious por-
tion of it cannot be grasped cognitively. This unconscious
portion, as experience has abundantly shown, is by no
means unimportant. On the contrary, the most decisive
qualities in a person are often unconscious and can be per-
ceived only by others, or have to be laboriously discovered
with outside help.
Clearly, then, the personality as a total phenomenon
does not coincide with the ego, that is, with the conscious
personality, but forms an entity that has to be distinguished
from the ego. Naturally the need to do this is incumbent
only on a psychology that reckons with the fact of the
unconscious, but for such a psychology the distinction is
of paramount importance. Even for jurisprudence it should
be of some importance whether certain psychic facts are
conscious or not — for instance, in adjudging the question
of responsibility.
I have suggested calling the total personality which,
though present, cannot be fully known, the self. The ego
is, by definition, subordinate to the self and is related to
it like a part to the whole. Inside the field of consciousness
it has, as we say, free will. By this I do not mean anything
philosophical, only the well-known psychological fact of
"free choice," or rather the subjective feeling of freedom.
But, just as our free will clashes with necessity in the out-
side world, so also it finds its limits outside the field of
consciousness in the subjective inner world, where it
comes into conflict with the facts of the self. And just as
circumstances or outside events "happen" to us and limit
our freedom, so the self acts upon the ego like an objective
occurrence which free will can do very little to alter. It is,
indeed, well known that the ego not only can do nothing
Phenomenology of the Self : 143
against the self, but is sometimes actually assimilated by
unconscious components of the personality that are in the
process of development and is greatly altered by them.
It is, in the nature of the case, impossible to give any
general description of the ego except a formal one. Any
other mode of observation would have to take account of
the individuality which attaches to the ego as one of its
main characteristics. Although the numerous elements
composing this complex factor are, in themselves, every-
where the same, they are infinitely varied as regards clar-
ity, emotional colouring, and scope. The result of their
combination — the ego — is therefore, so far as one can
judge, individual and unique, and retains its identity up
to a certain point. Its stability is relative, because far-
reaching changes of personality can sometimes occur. Al-
terations of this kind need not always be pathological; they
can also be developmental and hence fall within the scope
of the normal.
Since it is the point of reference for the field of con-
sciousness, the ego is the subject of all successful attempts
at adaptation so far as these are achieved by the will. The
ego therefore has a significant part to play in the psychic
economy. Its position there is so important that there are
good grounds for the prejudice that the ego is the centre of
the personality, and that the field of consciousness is the
psyche per se. If we discount certain suggestive ideas in
Leibniz, Kant, Schelling, and Schopenhauer, and the philo-
sophical excursions of Carus and von Hartmann, it is only
since the end of the nineteenth century that modern psy-
chology, with its inductive methods, has discovered the
foundations of consciousness and proved empirically the
existence of a psyche outside consciousness. With this dis-
covery the position of the ego, till then absolute, became
relativized; that is to say, though it retains its quality as
the centre of the field of consciousness, it is questionable
whether it is the centre of the personality. It is part of the
personality but not the whole of it. As I have said, it is
144 ' A ion
simply impossible to estimate how large or how small its
share is; how free or how dependent it is on the qualities
of this extra-conscious" psyche. We can only say that
its freedom is limited and its dependence proved in ways
that are often decisive. In my experience one would do
well not to underestimate its dependence on the uncon-
scious. Naturally there is no need to say this to persons who
already overestimate the latter's importance. Some cri-
terion for the right measure is afforded by the psychic
consequences of a wrong estimate, a point to which we
shall return later on.
We have seen that, from the standpoint of the psy-
chology of consciousness, the unconscious can be divided
into three groups of contents. But from the standpoint of
the psychology of the personality a twofold division en-
sues: an "extra-conscious" psyche whose contents are per-
sonal, and an "extra-conscious" psyche whose contents are
impersonal and collective. The first group comprises con-
tents which are integral components of the individual per-
sonality and could therefore just as well be conscious; the
second group forms, as it were, an omnipresent, unchang-
ing, and everywhere identical quality or substrate of the
psyche per se. This is, of course, no more than a hypothesis.
But we are driven to it by the peculiar nature of the em-
pirical material, not to mention the high probability that
the general similarity of psychic processes in all individuals
must be based on an equally general and impersonal prin-
ciple that conforms to law, just as the instinct manifesting
itself in the individual is only the partial manifestation of
an instinctual substrate common to all men.
II
The Shadow
Whereas the contents of the personal unconscious are
acquired during the individual's lifetime, the contents of
Phenomenology of the Self : 145
the collective unconscious are invariably archetypes that
were present from the beginning. Their relation to the in-
stincts has been discussed elsewhere. 3 The archetypes most
clearly characterized from the empirical point of view are
those which have the most frequent and the most disturb-
ing influence on the ego. These are the shadow, the anima,
and the animusA The most accessible of these, and the
easiest to experience, is the shadow, for its nature can in
large measure be inferred from the contents of the per-
sonal unconscious. The only exceptions to this rule are
those rather rare cases where the positive qualities of the
personality are repressed, and the ego in consequence plays
an essentially negative or unfavourable role.
The shadow is a moral problem that challenges the
whole ego-personality, for no one can become conscious
of the shadow without considerable moral effort. To be-
come conscious of it involves recognizing the dark aspects
of the personality as present and real. This act is the essen-
tial condition for any kind of self-knowledge, and it there-
fore, as a rule, meets with considerable resistance. Indeed,
self-knowledge as a psychotherapeutic measure frequently
requires much painstaking work extending over a long
period.
Closer examination of the dark characteristics — that is,
the inferiorities constituting the shadow — reveals that they
have an emotional nature, a kind of autonomy, and ac-
cordingly an obsessive or, better, possessive quality. Emo-
tion, incidentally, is not an activity of the individual but
something that happens to him. Affects occur usually
where adaptation is weakest, and at the same time they
reveal the reason for its weakness, namely a certain de-
:l "Instinct and the Unconscious" (supra, pp. 47-58) and "On the
Nature of the Psyche/' in The Structure and Dynamics of the
Psyche {Collected Works, Vol. 8), pars. 397ft.
*Thc contents of this and the following chapter are taken from a
lecture delivered to the Swiss Society for Practical Psychology, in
Zurich, 1948. The material was first published in the Wiener Zcil-
schrijt Jiir Nervenheilkunde unci deren Grenzgebiete, 1 (1948), 4.
146 : A ion
gree of inferiority and the existence of a lower level of
personality. On this lower level with its uncontrolled or
scarcely controlled emotions one behaves more or less like
a primitive, who is not only the passive victim of his affects
but also singularly incapable of moral judgment.
Although, with insight and good will, the shadow can to
some extent be assimilated into the conscious personality,
experience shows that there are certain features which offer
the most obstinate resistance to moral control and prove
almost impossible to influence. These resistances are usu-
ally bound up with projections, which are not recognized
as such, and their recognition is a moral achievement be-
yond the ordinary. While some traits peculiar to the
shadow can be recognized without too much difficulty as
one's own personal qualities, in this case both insight and
good will are unavailing because the cause of the emotion
appears to lie, beyond all possibility of doubt, in the other
person. No matter how obvious it may be to the neutral
observer that it is a matter of projections, there is little
hope that the subject will perceive this himself. He must
be convinced that he throws a very long shadow before
he is willing to withdraw his emotionally-toned projections
from their object.
Let us suppose that a certain individual shows no in-
clination whatever to recognize his projections. The pro-
jection-making factor then has a free hand and can realize
its object — if it has one — or bring about some other situa-
tion characteristic of its power. As we know, it is not the
conscious subject but the unconscious which does the
projecting. Hence one meets with projections, one does
not make them. The effect of projection is to isolate the
subject from his environment, since instead of a real re-
lation to it there is now only an illusory one. Projections
change the world into the replica of one's own unknown
face. In the last analysis, therefore, they lead to an auto-
erotic or autistic condition in which one dreams a world
whose reality remains forever unattainable. The resultant
Phenomenology of the Self : 147
sentiment d'incompletude and the still worse feeling of
sterility are in their turn explained by projection as the
malevolence of the environment, and by means of this
vicious circle the isolation is intensified. The more projec-
tions are thrust in between the subject and the environ-
ment, the harder it is for the ego to see through its illu-
sions. A forty-five-yea r-old patient who had suffered from
a compulsion neurosis since he was twenty and had be-
come completely cut off from the world once said to me:
"But I can never admit to myself that I've wasted the best
twenty-five years of my life!"
It is often tragic to see how blatantly a man bungles his
own life and the lives of others yet remains totally in-
capable of seeing how much the whole tragedy originates
in himself, and how he continually feeds it and keeps it
going. Not consciously, of course — for consciously he is
engaged in bewailing and cursing a faithless world that
recedes further and further into the distance. Rather, it
is an unconscious factor which spins the illusions that veil
his world. And what is being spun is a cocoon, which in
the end will completely envelop him.
One might assume that projections like these, which are
so very difficult if not impossible to dissolve, would belong
to the realm of the shadow — that is, to the negative side
of the personality. This assumption becomes untenable
after a certain point, because the symbols that then appear
no longer refer to the same but to the opposite sex, in a
man's case to a woman and vice versa. The source of pro-
jections is no longer the shadow — which is always of the
same sex as the subject — but a contrasexual figure. Here
we meet the animus of a woman and the anima of a man,
two corresponding archetypes whose autonomy and uncon-
sciousness explain the stubbornness of their projections.
Though the shadow is a motif as well known to mythology
as anima and animus, it represents first and foremost the
personal unconscious, and its content can therefore be
made conscious without too much difficulty. In this it
14S : A ion
differs from anima and animus, for whereas the shadow
can be seen through and recognized fairly easily, the anima
and animus are much further away from consciousness and
in normal circumstances are seldom if ever realized. With
a little self-criticism one can see through the shadow — so
far as its nature is personal. But when it appears as an
archetype, one encounters the same difficulties as with
anima and animus. In other words, it is quite within the
bounds of possibility for a man to recognize the relative
evil of his nature, but it is a rare and shattering experience
for him to gaze into the face of absolute evil.
Ill
The Syzygy: Anima and Animus
What, then, is this projection-making factor? The East
calls it the "Spinning Woman" 5 — Maya, who creates illu-
sion by her dancing. Had we not long since known it from
the symbolism of dreams, this hint from the Orient would
put us on the right track: the enveloping, embracing, and
devouring element points unmistakably to the mother, 6
that is, to the son's relation to the real mother, to her
imago, and to the woman who is to become a mother for
him. His Eros is passive like a child's; he hopes to be
caught, sucked in, enveloped, and devoured. He seeks, as
it were, the protecting, nourishing, charmed circle of the
mother, the condition of the infant released from every
care, in which the outside world bends over him and even
forces happiness upon him. No wonder the real world
vanishes from sight!
If this situation is dramatized, as the unconscious usually
3 Erwin Rousselle, "Spiritual Guidance in Contemporary Taoism,"
translated by Ralph Mannheim, in Joseph Campbell, ed., Papers
from the Ercmos Yearbooks, Bollingen Series XXX (New York,
1954-68, 6 vols.), Vol. 4, p. 82.
Here and in what follows, the word "mother" is not meant in the
literal sense but as a symbol of everything that functions as a mother.
Phenomenology of the Self : 149
dramatizes it, then there appears before you on the psy-
chological stage a man living regressively, seeking his child-
hood and his mother, fleeing from a cold cruel world which
denies him understanding. Often a mother appears beside
him who apparently shows not the slightest concern that
her little son should become a man, but who, with tireless
and self-immolating effort, neglects nothing that might
hinder him from growing up and marrying. You behold the
secret conspiracy between mother and son, and how each
helps the other to betray life.
Where does the guilt lie? With the mother, or with the
son? Probably with both. The unsatisfied longing of the
son for life and the world ought to be taken seriously.
There is in him a desire to touch reality, to embrace the
earth and fructify the field of the world. But he makes no
more than a series of fitful starts, for his initiative as well
as his staying power are crippled by the secret memory
that the world and happiness may be had as a gift — from
the mother. The fragment of world which he, like every
man, must encounter again and again is never quite the
right one, since it does not fall into his lap, does not meet
him half way, but remains resistant, has to be conquered,
and submits only to force. It makes demands on the mas-
culinity of a man, on his ardour, above all on his courage
and resolution when it comes to throwing his whole being
into the scales. For this he would need a faithless Eros, one
capable of forgetting his mother and undergoing the pain
of relinquishing the first love of his life. The mother, fore-
seeing this danger, has carefully inculcated into him the
virtues of faithfulness, devotion, loyalty, so as to protect
him from the moral disruption which is the risk of every
life adventure. He has learnt these lessons only too well,
and remains true to his mother. This naturally causes her
the deepest anxiety (when, to her greater glory, he turns
out to be a homosexual, for example) and at the same time
affords her an unconscious satisfaction that is positively
mythological. For, in the relationship now reigning be-
150 : Aion
tween them, there is consummated the immemorial and
most sacred archetype of the marriage of mother and son.
What, after all, has commonplace reality to offer, with its
registry offices, pay envelopes, and monthly rent, that could
outweigh the mystic awe of the hieros gamos? Or the star-
crowned woman whom the dragon pursues, or the pious
obscurities veiling the marriage of the Lamb?
This myth, better than any other, illustrates the nature
of the collective unconscious. At this level the mother is
both old and young, Demeter and Persephone, and the
son is spouse and sleeping suckling rolled into one. The
imperfections of real life, with its laborious adaptations and
manifold disappointments, naturally cannot compete with
such a state of indescribable fulfilment.
In the case of the son, the projection-making factor is
identical with the mother-imago, and this is consequently
taken to be the real mother. The projection can only be
dissolved when the son sees that in the realm of his psyche
there is an imago not only of the mother but of the daugh-
ter, the sister, the beloved, the heavenly goddess, and the
chthonic Baubo. Every mother and every beloved is forced
to become the carrier and embodiment of this omnipresent
and ageless image, which corresponds to the deepest reality
in a man. It belongs to him, this perilous image of Woman;
she stands for the loyalty which in the interests of life he
must sometimes forgo; she is the much needed compensa-
tion for the risks, struggles, sacrifices that all end in dis-
appointment; she is the solace for all the bitterness of life.
And, at the same time, she is the great illusionist, the
seductress, who draws him into life with her Maya — and
not only into life's reasonable and useful aspects, but into
its frightful paradoxes and ambivalences where good and
evil, success and ruin, hope and despair, counterbalance
one another. Because she is his greatest danger she de-
mands from a man his greatest, and if he has it in him she
will receive it.
This image is "My Lady Soul," as Spitteler called her. I
Phenomenology of the Self : 151
have suggested instead the term "anima," as indicating
something specific, for which the expression "soul" is too
general and too vague. The empirical reality summed up
under the concept of the anima forms an extremely dra-
matic content of the unconscious. It is possible to describe
this content in rational, scientific language, but in this way
one entirely fails to express its living character. Therefore,
in describing the living processes of the psyche, I deliber-
ately and consciously give preference to a dramatic, myth-
ological way of thinking and speaking, because this is not
only more expressive but also more exact than an abstract
scientific terminology, which is wont to toy with the no-
tion that its theoretic formulations may one fine day be
resolved into algebraic equations.
The projection-making factor is the anima, or rather the
unconscious as represented by the anima. Whenever she
appears, in dreams, visions, and fantasies, she takes on
personified form, thus demonstrating that the factor she
embodies possesses all the outstanding characteristics of a
feminine being. 7 She is not an invention of the conscious,
but a spontaneous product of the unconscious. Nor is she
a substitute figure for the mother. On the contrary, there
is every likelihood that the numinous qualities which make
the mother-imago so dangerously powerful derive from the
collective archetype of the anima, which is incarnated anew
in every male child.
Since the anima is an archetype that is found in men,
it is reasonable to suppose that an equivalent archetype
must be present in women; for just as the man is com-
pensated by a feminine element, so woman is compensated
by a masculine one. I do not, however, wish this argument
7 Nalurally, she is a typical figure in belles-lettres. Recent publications
on the subject of ihc anima include Linda Fierz-David, The Dream
of Puliphilo, translated by Mary Hottinger, Bollingen Scries XXV
(New York, 1950), and my "Psychology of the Transference"
{Collected Works, Vol. 16). The anima as a psychological idea first
appears in the sixteenth-century humanist Richardus Vitus. CI. my
Mysterium Couiunctioiiis (Collected Works, Vol. 14), pars. 9 iff.
1 52 : A ion
to give the impression that these compensatory relation-
ships were arrived at by deduction. On the contrary, long
and varied experience was needed in order to grasp the
nature of anima and animus empirically. Whatever we
have to say about these archetypes, therefore, is either di-
rectly verifiable or at least rendered probable by the facts.
At the same time, I am fully aware that we are discussing
pioneer work which by its very nature can only be provi-
sional.
Just as the mother seems to be the first carrier of the
projection-making factor for the son, so is the father for
the daughter. Practical experience of these relationships is
made up of many individual cases presenting all kinds of
variations on the same basic theme. A concise description
of them can, therefore, be no more than schematic.
Woman is compensated by a masculine element and
therefore her unconscious has, so to speak, a masculine
imprint. This results in a considerable psychological differ-
ence between men and women, and accordingly I have
called the projection-making factor in women the animus,
which means mind or spirit. The animus corresponds to
the paternal Logos just as the anima corresponds to the
maternal Eros. But I do not wish or intend to give these
two intuitive concepts too specific a definition. I use Eros
and Logos merely as conceptual aids to describe the fact
that woman's consciousness is characterized more by the
connective quality of Eros than by the discrimination and
cognition associated with Logos. In men, Eros, the func-
tion of relationship, is usually less developed than Logos.
In women, on the other hand, Eros is an expression of
their true nature, while their Logos is often only a re-
grettable accident. It gives rise to misunderstandings and
annoying interpretations in the family circle and among
friends. This is because it consists of opinions instead of
reflections, and by opinions I mean a priori assumptions
that lay claim to absolute truth. Such assumptions, as
everyone knows, can be extremely irritating. As the animus
Phenomenology of the Self : 153
is partial to argument, he can best be seen at work in
disputes where both parties know they are right. Men can
argue in a very womanish way, too, when they are anima-
possessed and have thus been transformed into the animus
of their own anima. With them the question becomes one
of personal vanity and touchiness (as if they were fe-
males) ; with women it is a question of power, whether of
truth or justice or some other "ism" — for the dressmaker
and hairdresser have already taken care of their vanity.
The "Father" (i.e., the sum of conventional opinions)
always plays a great role in female argumentation. No
matter how friendly and obliging a woman's Eros may be,
no logic on earth can shake her if she is ridden by the
animus. Often the man has the feeling — and he is not al-
together wrong — that only seduction or a beating or rape
would have the necessary power of persuasion. Ho is un-
aware that this highly dramatic situation would instantly
come to a banal and unexciting end if he were to quit the
field and let a second woman carry on the battle (his wife,
for instance, if she herself is not the fiery war horse). This
sound idea seldom or never occurs to him, because no man
can converse with an animus for five minutes without
becoming the victim of his own anima. Anyone who still
had enough sense of humour to listen objectively to the
ensuing dialogue would be staggered by the vast number
of commonplaces, misapplied truisms, cliches from news-
papers and novels, shop-soiled platitudes of every descrip-
tion interspersed with vulgar abuse and brain-splitting lack
of logic. It is a dialogue which, irrespective of its par-
ticipants, is repeated millions and millions of times in all
the languages of the world and always remains essentially
the same.
This singular fact is due to the following circumstance:
when animus and anima meet, the animus draws his sword
of power and the anima ejects her poison of illusion and
seduction. The outcome need not always be negative, since
the two are equally likely to fall in love (a special instance
i$4 •' A ion
of love at first sight). The language of love is of astonish-
ing uniformity, using the well-worn formulas with the
utmost devotion and fidelity, so that once again the two
partners find themselves in a banal collective situation. Yet
they live in the illusion that they are related to one another
in a most individual way.
In both its positive and its negative aspects the anima/
animus relationship is always full of "animosity," i.e., it
is emotional, and hence collective. Affects lower the level
of the relationship and bring it closer to the common in-
stinctual basis, which no longer has anything individual
about it. Very often the relationship runs its course heed-
less of its human performers, who afterwards do not know
what happened to them.
Whereas the cloud of "animosity" surrounding the man
is composed chiefly of sentimentality and resentment, in
woman it expresses itself in the form of opinionated views,
interpretations, insinuations, and misconstructions, which
all have the purpose (sometimes attained) of severing the
relation between two human beings. The woman, like the
man, becomes wrapped in a veil of illusions by her demon-
familiar, and, as the daughter who alone understands her
father (that is, is eternally right in everything), she is
translated to the land of sheep, where she is put to graze
by the shepherd of her soul, the animus.
Like the anima, the animus too has a positive aspect.
Through the figure of the father he expresses not only con-
ventional opinion but — equally — what we call "spirit,"
philosophical or religious ideas in particular, or rather the
attitude resulting from them. Thus the animus is a psy-
chopomp, a mediator between the conscious and the un-
conscious and a personification of the latter. Just as the
anima becomes, through integration, the Eros of conscious-
ness, so the animus becomes a Logos; and in the same way
that the anima gives relationship and relatedness to a man's
consciousness, the animus gives to woman's consciousness
a capacity for reflection, deliberation, and self-knowledge.
Phenomenology of the Self : 155
The effect of anima and animus on the ego is in prin-
ciple the same. This effect is extremely difficult to eliminate
because, in the first place, it is uncommonly strong and
immediately fills the ego-personality with an unshakable
feeling of Tightness and righteousness. In the second place,
the cause of the effect is projected and appears to lie in
objects and objective situations. Both these characteristics
can, I believe, be traced back to the peculiarities of the
archetype. For the archetype, of course, exists a priori.
This may possibly explain the often totally irrational yet
undisputed and indisputable existence of certain moods
and opinions. Perhaps these are so notoriously difficult to
influence because of the powerfully suggestive effect ema-
nating from the archetype. Consciousness is fascinated by
it, held captive, as if hypnotized. Very often the ego ex-
periences a vague feeling of moral defeat and then behaves
all the more defensively, defiantly, and self-righteously,
thus setting up a vicious circle which only increases its
feeling of inferiority. The bottom is then knocked out of
the human relationship, for, like megalomania, a feeling
of inferiority makes mutual recognition impossible, and
without this there is no relationship.
As I said, it is easier to gain insight into the shadow
than into the anima or animus. With the shadow, we have
the advantage of being prepared in some sort by our edu-
cation, which has always endeavoured to convince people
that they are not one-hundred-per-cent pure gold. So
everyone immediately understands what is meant by
"shadow," "inferior personality," etc. And if he has for-
gotten, his memory can easily be refreshed by a Sunday
sermon, his wife, or the tax collector. With the anima and
animus, however, things are by no means so simple. Firstly,
there is no moral education in this respect, and secondly,
most people are content to be self-righteous and prefer
mutual vilification (if nothing worse!) to the recognition
of their projections. Indeed, it seems a very natural state
of affairs for men to have irrational moods and women
l$6 : Aion
irrational opinions. Presumably this situation is grounded
on instinct and must remain as it is to ensure that the
Empedoclean game of the hate and love of the elements
shall continue for all eternity. Nature is conservative and
does not easily allow her courses to be altered; she defends
in the most stubborn way the inviolability of the preserves
where anima and animus roam. Hence it is much more
difficult to become conscious of one's anima/animus pro-
jections than to acknowledge one's shadow side. One has,
of course, to overcome certain moral obstacles, such as
vanity, ambition, conceit, resentment, etc., but in the case
of projections all sorts of purely intellectual difficulties are
added, quite apart from the contents of the projection
which one simply doesn't know how to cope with. And on
top of all this there arises a profound doubt as to whether
one is not meddling too much with nature's business by
prodding into consciousness things which it would have
been better to leave asleep.
Although there are, in my experience, a fair number of
people who can understand without special intellectual or
moral difficulties what is meant by anima and animus, one
finds very many more who have the greatest trouble in
visualizing these empirical concepts as anything concrete.
This shows that they fall a little outside the usual range
of experience. They are unpopular precisely because they
seem unfamiliar. The consequence is that they mobilize
prejudice and become taboo like everything else that is
unexpected.
So if we set it up as a kind of requirement that projec-
tions should be dissolved, because it is wholesomer that
way and in every respect more advantageous, we are enter-
ing upon new ground. Up till now everybody has been
convinced that the idea "my father," "my mother," etc.,
is nothing but a faithful reflection of the real parent, cor-
responding in every detail to the original, so that when
someone says "my father" he means no more and no less
than what his father is in reality. This is actually what he
Phenomenology of the Self : 157
supposes he does mean, but a supposition of identity by
no means brings that identity about. This is where the
fallacy of the enkekalymmenos ("the veiled one") comes
in. 8 If one includes in the psychological equation X's pic-
ture of his father, which he takes for the real father, the
equation will not work out, because the unknown quantity
he has introduced does not tally with reality. X has over-
looked the fact that his idea of a person consists, in the
first place, of the possibly very incomplete picture he has
received of the real person and, in the second place, of
the subjective modifications he has imposed upon this
picture. X's idea of his father is a complex quantity for
which the real father is only in part responsible, an in-
definitely larger share falling to the son. So true is this that
every time he criticizes or praises his father he is uncon-
sciously hitting back at himself, thereby bringing about
those psychic consequences that overtake people who
habitually disparage or overpraise themselves. If, how-
ever, X carefully compares his reactions with reality, he
stands a chance of noticing that he has miscalculated some-
where by not realizing long ago from his father's behaviour
that the picture he has of him is a false one. But as a rule
X is convinced that he is right, and if anybody is wrong
it must be the other fellow. Should X have a poorly de-
veloped Eros, he will be either indifferent to the inade-
quate relationship he has with his father or else annoyed
by the inconsistency and general incomprehensibility of
a father whose behaviour never really corresponds to the
picture X has of him. Therefore X thinks he has every
right to feel hurt, misunderstood, and even betrayed.
One can imagine how desirable it would be in such cases
to dissolve the projection. And there are always optimists
who believe that the golden age can be ushered in simply
8 The fallacy, which stems from Eubulidcs ihc Megarian, runs: "Can
you recognize your father?" Yes. "Can you rccoginzc this veiled
one?" No. "This veiled one is your father. Hence you can recognize
your father and not recognize him."
158 : A ion
by telling people the right way to go. But just let them
try to explain to these people that they are acting like a
dog chasing its own tail. To make a person see the short-
comings of his attitude considerably more than mere
"telling" is needed, for more is involved than ordinary
common sense can allow. What one is up against here
is the kind of fateful misunderstanding which, under ordi-
nary conditions, remains forever inaccessible to insight.
It is rather like expecting the average respectable citizen
to recognize himself as a criminal.
I mention all this just to illustrate the order of magni-
tude to which the anima/animus projections belong, and
the moral and intellectual exertions that are needed to
dissolve them. Not all the contents of the aaima and
animus are projected, however. Many of them appear
spontaneously in dreams and so on, and many more can
be made conscious through active imagination. In this way
we find that thoughts, feelings, and affects are alive in us
which we would never have believed possible. Naturally,
possibilities of this sort seem utterly fantastic to anyone
who has not experienced them himself, for a normal person
"knows what he thinks." Such a childish attitude on the
part of the "normal person" is simply the rule, so that no
one without experience in this field can be expected to
understand the real nature of anima and animus. With
these reflections one gets into an entirely new world of
psychological experience, provided of course that one suc-
ceeds in realizing it in practice. Those who do succeed can
hardly fail to be impressed by all that the ego does not
know and never has known. This increase in self-knowledge
is still very rare nowadays and is usually paid for in ad-
vance with a neurosis, if not with something worse.
The autonomy of the collective unconscious expresses
itself in the figures of anima and animus. They personify
those of its contents which, when withdrawn from projec-
tion, can be integrated into consciousness. To this extent,
both figures represent functions which filter the contents
Phenomenology of the Self : 159
of the collective unconscious through to the conscious
mind. They appear or behave as such, however, only so
long as the tendencies of the conscious and unconscious
do not diverge too greatly. Should any tension arise, these
functions, harmless till then, confront the conscious mind
in personified form and behave rather like systems split
off from the personality, or like part souls. This comparison
is inadequate in so far as nothing previously belonging to
the ego-personality has split off from it; on the contrary,
the two figures represent a disturbing accretion. The rea-
son for their behaving in this way is that though the con-
tents of anima and animus can be integrated they them-
selves cannot, since they are archetypes. As such they are
the foundation stones of the psychic structure, which in
its totality exceeds the limits of consciousness and there-
fore can never become the object of direct cognition.
Though the effects of anima and animus can be made
conscious, they themselves are factors transcending con-
sciousness and beyond the reach of perception and voli-
tion. Hence they remain autonomous despite the integra-
tion of their contents, and for this reason they should be
borne constantly in mind. This is extremely important from
the therapeutic standpoint, because constant observation
pays the unconscious a tribute that more or less guarantees
its co-operation. The unconscious as we know can never
be "done with" once and for all. It is, in fact, one of the
most important tasks of psychic hygiene to pay continual
attention to the symptomatology of unconscious contents
and processes, for the good reason that the conscious mind
is always in danger of becoming one-sided, of keeping to
well-worn paths and getting stuck in blind alleys. The com-
plementary and compensating function of the unconscious
ensures that these dangers, which are especially great in
neurosis, can in some measure be avoided. It is only under
ideal conditions, when life is still simple and unconscious
enough to follow the serpentine path of instinct without
hesitation or misgiving, that the compensation works with
160 : A ion
entire success. The more civilized, the more unconscious
and complicated a man is, the less he is able to follow his
instincts. His complicated living conditions and the in-
fluence of his environment are so strong that they drown
the quiet voice of nature. Opinions, beliefs, theories, and
collective tendencies appear in its stead and back up all
the aberrations of the conscious mind. Deliberate atten-
tion should then be given to the unconscious so that the
compensation can set to work. Hence it is especially im-
portant to picture the archetypes of the unconscious not as
a rushing phantasmagoria of fugitive images but as con-
stant, autonomous factors, which indeed they are.
Both these archetypes, as practical experience shows,
possess a fatality that can on occasion produce tragic re-
sults. They are quite literally the father and mother of
all the disastrous entanglements of fate and have long
been recognized as such by the whole world. Together
they form a divine pair, 9 one of whom, in accordance with
his Logos nature, is characterized by pneuma and nous,
rather like Hermes with his ever-shifting hues, while the
other, in accordance with her Eros nature, wears the
features of Aphrodite, Helen (Selene), Persephone, and
Hecate. Both of them are unconscious powers, "gods" in
fact, as the ancient world quite rightly conceived them
to be. To call them by this name is to give them that cen-
tral position in the scale of psychological values which has
always been theirs whether consciously acknowledged or
not; for their power grows in proportion to the degree that
they remain unconscious. Those who do not see them are
in their hands, just as a typhus epidemic flourishes best
Naturally this is not meant as a psychological definition, let alone
a metaphysical one. As I pointed out in "The Relations between the
Ego and the Unconscious" {Collected Works, Vol. 7, pars. 296ff.),
the syzygy consists of three elements: the femininity pertaining to
the man and the masculinity pertaining to the woman; the experience
which man has of woman and vice versa; and, finally, the masculine
and feminine archetypal image. The first element can be integrated
into the personality by the process of conscious realization, but the
last one cannot.
Phenomenology of the Self : 161
when its source is undiscovered. Even in Christianity the
divine syzygy has not become obsolete, but occupies the
highest place as Christ and his bride the Church. 10 Paral-
lels like these prove extremely helpful in our attempts to
find the right criterion for gauging the significance of these
two archetypes. What we can discover about them from
the conscious side is so slight as to be almost imperceptible.
It is only when we throw light into the dark depths of the
psyche and explore the strange and tortuous paths of hu-
man fate that it gradually becomes clear to us how im-
mense is the influence wielded by these two factors that
complement our conscious life.
Recapitulating, I should like to emphasize that the in-
tegration of the shadow, or the realization of the personal
unconscious, marks the first stage in the analytic process,
and that without it a recognition of anima and animus is
impossible. The shadow can be realized only through a
relation to a partner, and anima and animus only through
a relation to a partner of the opposite sex, because only in
such a relation do their projections become operative. The
recognition of the anima gives rise, in a man, to a triad,
one third of which is transcendent: the masculine subject,
the opposing feminine subject, and the transcendent anima.
With a woman the situation is reversed. The missing fourth
element that would make the triad a quaternity is, in a
man, the archetype of the Wise Old Man, which I have
not discussed here, and in a woman the Chthonic Mother.
These four constitute a half immanent and half transcend-
ent quaternity, an archetype which i have called the mar-
riage quaternio. 11 The marriage quaternio provides a
1M t4 For the Scripture says, God made man male and female; the male
is Christ, the female is the Church." Second Epistle of Clement to
the Corinthians, xiv, 2 (translated by Kirsopp Lake, The Apostolic
Fathers, Locb Classical Library [London and New York, 1 912-13,
2 vols.], Vol. I, p. 151). In pictorial representations, Mary often takes
the place of the Church.
11 "The Psychology of the Transference" {Collected Works, Vol. 16),
pars. 425ft. Cf. "The Structure and Dynamics of the Self {Collected
Works, Vol. 9.ii), pars. 358ft., the Naasscne quaternio.
1 62 : A ion
schema not only for the self but also for the structure of
primitive society with its cross-cousin marriage, marriage
classes, and division of settlements into quarters. The self,
on the other hand, is a God-image, or at least cannot be
distinguished from one. Of this the early Christian spirit
was not ignorant, otherwise Clement of Alexandria could
never have said that he who knows himself knows God. 12
ri €f. "The Structure and Dynamics of the Self" (Collected Works,
Vol. 9.ii), par. 347.
M7M
Marriage as a Psychological
Relationship 1
Regarded as a psychological relationship, marriage is a
highly complex structure made up of a whole series of
subjective and objective factors, mostly of a very hetero-
geneous nature. As I wish to confine myself here to the
purely psychological problems of marriage, I must dis-
regard in the main the objective factors of a legal and
social nature, although these cannot fail to have a pro-
nounced influence on the psychological relationship be-
tween the marriage partners.
Whenever we speak of a "psychological relationship"
we presuppose one that is conscious, for there is no such
thing as a psychological relationship between two people
who are in a state of unconsciousness. From the psy-
chological point of view they would be wholly without
1 From The Development of Personality. Collected Works, Vol. 17,
pars. 324-345. f First published as "Die Ehe als psychologische
Bcziehung," in Das Ehebuch (Cclle, 1925), a volume cdiicd by
Count Hermann Kcyserling; translated by Theresa Duerr in the Eng-
lish version, The Book of Marriage (New York," 1926). The original
was reprinted in Seelenprobleme der Gegenwart (Zurich, 193 1). The
essay was again translated into English by H. G. and Cary F. Baynes
in Contributions to Analytical Psychology (London and New York,
1928), and this version has been freely consulted in the present trans-
lation. — Editors of The Collected Works.]
163
164 .' The Development of Personality
relationship. From any other point of view, the physiolog-
ical for example, they could be regarded as related, but one
could not call their relationship psychological. It must be
admitted that though such total unconsciousness as I have
assumed does not occur, there is nevertheless a not in-
considerable degree of partial unconsciousness, and the
psychological relationship is limited in the degree to which
that unconsciousness exists.
In the child, consciousness rises out of the depths of
unconscious psychic life, at first like separate islands, which
gradually unite to form a "continent," a continuous land-
mass of consciousness. Progressive mental development
means, in effect, extension of consciousness. With the
rise of a continuous consciousness, and not before, psy-
chological relationship becomes possible. So far as we
know, consciousness is always ego-consciousness. In order
to be conscious of myself, I must be able to distinguish
myself from others. Relationship can only take place where
this distinction exists. But although the distinction may
be made in a general way, normally it is incomplete, be-
cause large areas of psychic life still remain unconscious.
As no distinction can be made with regard to unconscious
contents, on this terrain no relationship can be established;
here there still reigns the original unconscious condition
of the ego's primitive identity with others, in other words
a complete absence of relationship.
The young person of marriageable age does, of course,
possess an ego-consciousness (girls more than men, as a
rule), but, since he has only recently emerged from the
mists of original unconsciousness, he is certain to have
wide areas which still lie in the shadow and which preclude
to that extent the formation of psychological relationship.
This means, in practice, that the young man (or woman)
can have only an incomplete understanding of himself and
others, and is therefore imperfectly informed as to his, and
their, motives. As a rule the motives he acts from are
largely unconscious. Subjectively, of course, he thinks him-
Marriage as a Psychological Relationship : 165
self very conscious and knowing, for we constantly over-
estimate the existing content of consciousness, and it is a
great and surprising discovery when we find that what we
had supposed to be the final peak is nothing but the first
step in a very long climb. The greater the area of uncon-
sciousness, the less is marriage a matter of free choice, as
is shown subjectively in the fatal compulsion one feels so
acutely when one is in love. The compulsion can exist even
when one is not in love, though in less agreeable form.
Unconscious motivations are of a personal and of a
general nature. First of all, there are the motives deriving
from parental influence. The relationship of the young man
to his mother, and of the girl to her father, is the deter-
mining factor in this respect. It is the strength of the bond
to the parents that unconsciously influences the choice
of husband or wife, either positively or negatively. Con-
scious love for either parent favours the choice of a like
mate, while an unconscious tie (which need not by any
means express itself consciously as love) makes the choice
difficult and imposes characteristic modifications. In order
to understand them, one must know first of all the cause of
the unconscious tie to the parents, and under what condi-
tions it forcibly modifies, or even prevents, the conscious
choice. Generally speaking, all the life which the parents
could have lived, but of which they thwarted themselves
for artificial motives, is passed on to the children in sub-
stitute form. That is to say, the children are driven un-
consciously in a direction that is intended to compensate
for everything that was left unfulfilled in the lives of their
parents. Hence it is that excessively moral-minded parents
have what are called "unmoral" children, or an irrespon-
sible wastrel of a father has a son with a positively morbid
amount of ambition, and so on. The worst results flow
from parents who have kept themselves artificially uncon-
scious. Take the case of a mother who deliberately keeps
herself unconscious so as not to disturb the pretence of a
"satisfactory" marriage. Unconsciously she will bind her
166 : The Development of Personality
son to her, more or less as a substitute for a husband. The
son, if not forced directly into homosexuality, is compelled
to modify his choice in a way that is contrary to his true
nature. He may, for instance, marry a girl who is obviously
inferior to his mother and therefore unable to compete
with her; or he will fall for a woman of a tyrannical and
overbearing disposition, who may perhaps succeed in tear-
ing him away from his mother. The choice of a mate, if
the instincts have not been vitiated, may remain free from
these influences, but sooner or later they will make them-
selves felt as obstacles. A more or less instinctive choice
might be considered the best from the point of view of
maintaining the species, but it is not always fortunate
psychologically, because there is often an uncommonly
large difference between the purely instinctive personality
and one that is individually differentiated. And though in
such cases the race might be improved and invigorated by
a purely instinctive choice, individual happiness would be
bound to suffer. (The idea of "instinct" is of course noth-
ing more than a collective term for all kinds of organic
and psychic factors whose nature is for the most part un-
known.)
If the individual is to be regarded solely as an instru-
ment for maintaining the species, then the purely instinc-
tive choice of a mate is by far the best. But since the
foundations of such a choice are unconscious, only a kind
of impersonal liaison can be built upon them, such as can
be observed to perfection among primitives. If we can
speak here of a "relationship" at all, it is, at best, only a
pale reflection of what we mean, a very distant state of
affairs with a decidedly impersonal character, wholly regu-
lated by traditional customs and prejudices, the prototype
of every conventional marriage.
So far as reason or calculation or the so-called loving
care of the parents does not arrange the marriage, and
the pristine instincts of the children are not vitiated either
by false education or by the hidden influence of accumu-
Marriage as a Psychological Relationship : i6y
lated and neglected parental complexes, the marriage
choice will normally follow the unconscious motivations
of instinct. Unconsciousness results in non-differentiation,
or unconscious identity. The practical consequence of this
is that one person presupposes in the other a psychological
structure similar to his own. Normal sex life, as a shared
experience with apparently similar aims, further strength-
ens the feeling of unity and identity. This state is described
as one of complete harmony, and is extolled as a great
happiness ("one heart and one soul'*) — not without good
reason, since the return to that original condition of un-
conscious oneness is like a return to childhood. Hence the
childish gestures of all lovers. Even more is it a return to
the mother's womb, into the teeming depths of an as yet
unconscious creativity. It is, in truth, a genuine and in-
contestable experience of the Divine, whose transcendent
force obliterates and consumes everything individual; a
real communion with life and the impersonal power of
fate. The individual will for self-possession is broken: the
woman becomes the mother, the man the father, and thus
both are robbed of their freedom and made instruments
of the life urge.
Here the relationship remains within the bounds of the
biological instinctive goal, the preservation of the species.
Since this goal is of a collective nature, the psychological
link between husband and wife will also be essentially
collective, and cannot be regarded as an individual rela-
tionship in the psychological sense. We can only speak of
this when the nature of the unconscious motivations has
been recognized and the original identity broken down.
Seldom or never does a marriage develop into an individual
relationship smoothly and without crises. There is no birth
of consciousness without pain.
The ways that lead to conscious realization are many,
but they follow definite laws. In general, the change begins
with the onset of the second half of life. The middle period
of life is a time of enormous psychological importance.
168 : The Development of Personality
The child begins its psychological life within very narrow
limits, inside the magic circle of the mother and the family.
With progressive maturation it widens its horizon and its
own sphere of influence; its hopes and intentions are di-
rected to extending the scope of personal power and pos-
sessions; desire reaches out to the world in ever-widening
range; the will of the individual becomes more and more
identical with the natural goals pursued by unconscious
motivations. Thus man breathes his own life into things,
until finally they begin to live of themselves and to mul-
tiply; and imperceptibly he is overgrown by them. Mothers
are overtaken by their children, men by their own crea-
tions, and what was originally brought into being only with
labour and the greatest effort can no longer be held in
check. First it was passion, then it became duty, and finally
an intolerable burden, a vampire that battens on the life
of its creator. Middle life is the moment of greatest, un-
folding, when a man still gives himself to his work with
his whole strength and his whole will. But in this very mo-
ment evening is born, and the second half of life begins.
Passion now changes her face and is called duty; "I want"
becomes the inexorable "I must," and the turnings of the
pathway that once brought surprise and discovery become
dulled by custom. The wine has fermented and begins to
settle and clear. Conservative tendencies develop if all goes
well; instead of looking forward one looks backward, most
of the time involuntarily, and one begins to take stock, to
see how one's life has developed up to this point. The real
motivations are sought and real discoveries are made. The
critical survey of himself and his fate enables a man to
recognize his peculiarities. But these insights do not come
to him easily; they are gained only through the severest
shocks.
Since the aims of the second half of life are different
from those of the first, to linger too long in the youthful
attitude produces a division of the will. Consciousness still
presses forward, in obedience, as it were, to its own inertia,
but the unconscious lags behind, because the strength and
Marriage as a Psychological Relationship : 169
inner resolve needed for further expansion have been
sapped. This disunity with oneself begets discontent, and
since one is not conscious of the real state of things one
generally projects the reasons for it upon one's partner. A
critical atmosphere thus develops, the necessary prelude to
conscious realization. Usually this state docs not begin
simultaneously for both partners. Even the best of mar-
riages cannot expunge individual differences so completely
that the state of mind of the partners is absolutely iden-
tical. In most cases one of them will adapt tq marriage
more quickly than the other. The one who is grounded on
a positive relationship to the parents will find little or no
difficulty in adjusting to his or her partner, while the other
may be hindered by a deep-seated unconscious tie to the
parents. He will therefore achieve complete adaptation
only later, and, because it is won with greater difficulty, it
may even prove the more durable.
These differences in tempo, and in the degree of spiritual
development, are the chief causes of a typical difficulty
which makes its appearance at critical moments. In speak-
ing of "the degree of spiritual development" of a person-
ality, I do not wish to imply an especially rich or mag-
nanimous nature. Such is not the case at all. I mean, rather,
a certain complexity of mind or nature, comparable to a
gem with many facets as opposed to the simple cube. There
are many-sided and rather problematical natures burdened
with hereditary traits that are sometimes very difficult to
reconcile. Adaptation to such natures, or their adaptation
to simpler personalities, is always a problem. These people,
having a certain tendency to dissociation, generally have
the capacity to split off irreconcilable traits of character for
considerable periods, thus passing themselves off as much
simpler than they are; or it may happen that their many-
sidedness, their very versatility, lends them a peculiar
charm. Their partners can easily lose themselves in such a
labyrinthine nature, finding in it such an abundance of
possible experiences that their personal interests are com-
pletely absorbed, sometimes in a not very agreeable way,
jyo : The Development of Personality
since their sole occupation then consists in tracking the
other through all the twists and turns of his character.
There is always so much experience available that the
simpler personality is surrounded, if not actually swamped,
by it; he is swallowed up in his more complex partner and
cannot see his way out. It is an almost regular occurrence
for a woman to be wholly contained, spiritually, in her
husband, and for a husband to be wholly contained, emo-
tionally, in his wife. One could describe this as the problem
of the "contained" and the "container."
The one who is contained feels himself to be living en-
tirely within the confines of his marriage; his attitude to
the marriage partner is undivided; outside the marriage
there exist no essential obligations and no binding inter-
ests. The unpleasant side of this otherwise ideal partnership
is. the disquieting dependence upon a personality that can
never be seen in its entirety, and is therefore not altogether
credible or dependable. The great advantage lies in his own
undivided ncss, and this is a factor not to be underrated in
the psychic economy.
The container, on the other hand, who in accordance
with his tendency to dissociation has an especial need to
unify himself in undivided love for another, will be left
far behind in this effort, which is naturally very difficult
for him, by the simpler personality. While he is seeking
in the latter all the subtleties and complexities that would
complement and correspond to his own facets, he is disturb-
ing the other's simplicity. Since in normal circumstances
simplicity always kas the advantage over complexity, he
will very soon be obliged to abandon his efforts to arouse
subtle and intricate reactions in a simpler nature. And
soon enough his partner, who in accordance with her 2
simpler nature expects simple answers from him, will give
*[In translating this and the following passages, I have, for the sake
of clarity, assumed that the container is the man and the contained
woman. This assumption is due entirely to the exigencies of English
grammar, and is not implied in the German text. Needless to say, the
situation could just as easily be reversed.— Translator.]
Marriage as a Psychological Relationship : lji
him plenty to do by constellating his complexities with her
everlasting insistence on simple answers. Willy-nilly, he
must withdraw into himself before the suasions of sim-
plicity. Any mental effort, like the conscious process itself,
is so much of a strain for the ordinary man that he in-
variably prefers the simple, even when it does not happen
to be the truth. And when it represents at least a half-
truth, then it is all up with him. The simpler nature works
on the more complicated like a room that is too small, that
does not allow him enough space. The complicated nature,
on the other hand, gives the simpler one too many rooms
with too much space, so that she never knows where she
really belongs. So it comes about quite naturally that the
more complicated contains the simpler. The former cannot
be absorbed in the latter, but encompasses it without being
itself contained. Yet, since the more complicated has per-
haps a greater need of being contained than the other, he
feels himself outside the marriage and accordingly always
plays the problematical role. The more the contained clings,
the more the container feels shut out of the relationship.
The contained pushes into it by her clinging, and the more
she pushes, the less the container is able to respond. He
therefore tends to spy out of the window, no doubt un-
consciously at first; but with the onset of middle age there
awakens in him a more insistent longing for that unity and
undividedness which is especially necessary to him on
account of his dissociated nature. At this juncture things
are apt to occur that bring the conflict to a head. He be-
comes conscious of the fact that he is seeking completion,
seeking the contentedness and undividedness that have
always been lacking. For the contained this is only a con-
firmation of the insecurity she has always felt so painfully;
she discovers that in the rooms which apparently belonged
to her there dwell other, unwished-for guests. The hope of
security vanishes, and this disappointment drives her in
on herself, unless by desperate and violent efforts she can
succeed in forcing her partner to capitulate, and in extort-
IJ2 : The Development of Personality
ing a confession that his longing for unity was nothing but
a childish or morbid fantasy. If these tactics do not suc-
ceed, her acceptance of failure may do her a real good, by
forcing her to recognize that the security she was so des-
perately seeking in the other is to be found in herself. In
this way she finds herself and discovers in her own simpler
nature all those complexities which the container had
sought for in vain.
If the container does not break down in face of what
we are wont to call "unfaithfulness," but goes on believing
in the inner justification of his longing for unity, he will
have to put up with his self-division for the time being. A
dissociation is not healed by being split off, but by more
complete disintegration. All the powers that strive for
unity, all healthy desire for selfhood, will resist the disinte-
gration, and in this way he will become conscious of the
possibility of an inner integration, which before he had
always sought outside himself. He will then find his reward
in an undivided self.
This is what happens very frequently about the midday
of life, and in this wise our miraculous human nature en-
forces the transition that leads from the first half of life
to the second. It is a metamorphosis from a state in which
man is only a tool of instinctive nature, to another in which
he is no longer a tool, but himself: a transformation of
nature into culture, of instinct into spirit.
One should take great care not to interrupt this necessary
development by acts of moral violence, for any attempt
to create a spiritual attitude by splitting off and suppressing
the instincts is a falsification. Nothing is more repulsive
than a furtively prurient spirituality; it is just as unsavoury
as gross sensuality. But the transition takes a long time,
and the great majority of people get stuck in the first stages.
If only we could, like the primitives, leave the unconscious
to look after this whole psychological development which
marriage entails, these transformations could be worked
out more completely and without too much friction. So
often among so-called "primitives" one comes across spirit-
Marriage as a Psychological Relationship : 173
ual personalities who immediately inspire respect, as
though they were the fully matured products of an undis-
turbed fate. I speak here from personal experience. But
where among present-day Europeans can one find people
not deformed by acts of moral violence? We are still bar-
barous enough to believe in both asceticism and its op-
posite. But the wheel of history cannot be put back; we
can only strive towards an attitude that will allow us to live
out our fate as undisturbedly as the primitive pagan in us
really wants. Only on this condition can we be sure of not
perverting spirituality into sensuality, and vice versa; for
both must live, each drawing life from the other.
The transformation I have briefly described above is the
very essence of the psychological marriage relationship.
Much could be said about the illusions that serve the ends
of nature and bring about the transformations that are
characteristic of middle life. The peculiar harmony that
characterizes marriage during the first half of life — pro-
vided the adjustment is successful — is largely based on the
projection of certain archetypal images, as the critical phase
makes clear.
Every man carries within him the eternal image of
woman, not the image of this or that particular woman,
but a definite feminine image. This image is fundamentally
unconscious, an hereditary factor of primordial origin en-
graved in the living organic system of the man, an imprint
or "archetype" of all the ancestral experiences of the fe-
male, a deposit, as it were, of all the impressions ever made
by woman — in short, an inherited system of psychic adapta-
tion. Even if no women existed, it would still be possible,
at any given time, to deduce from this unconscious image
exactly how a woman would have to be constituted psy-
chically. The same is true of the woman: she too has her
inborn image of man. Actually, we know from experience
that it would be more accurate to describe it as an image
of men, whereas in the case of the man it is rather the
image of woman. Since this image is unconscious, it is al-
ways unconsciously projected upon the person of the be-
174 •' The Development of Personality
loved, and is one of the chief reasons for passionate attrac-
tion or aversion. I have called this image the "anima," and
1 find the scholastic question Habet mulier animam? espe-
cially interesting, since in my view it is an intelligent one
inasmuch as the doubt seems justified. Woman has no
anima, no soul, but she has an animus. The anima has an
erotic, emotional character, the animus a rationalizing one.
Hence most of what men say about feminine eroticism,
and particularly about the emotional life of women, is de-
rived from their own anima projections and distorted ac-
cordingly. On the other hand, the astonishing assumptions
and fantasies that women make about men come from the
activity of the animus, who produces an inexhaustible
supply of illogical arguments and false explanations.
Anima and animus are both characterized by an extra-
ordinary many-sidedness. In a marriage it is always the
contained who projects this image upon the container, while
the latter is only partially able to project his unconscious
image upon his partner. The more unified and simple this
partner is, the less complete the projection. In which case,
this highly fascinating image hangs as it were in mid air, as
though waiting to be filled out by a living person. There
are certain types of women who seem to be made by nature
to attract anima projections; indeed one could almost speak
of a definite "anima type." The so-called "sphinx-like"
character is an indispensable part of their equipment, also
an equivocalness, an intriguing elusiveness — not an indef-
inite blur that offers nothing, but an indefiniteness that
seems full of promises, like the speaking silence of a Mona
Lisa. A woman of this kind is both old and young, mother
and daughter, of more than doubtful chastity, childlike,
and yet endowed with a naive cunning that is extremely
disarming to men. 3 Not every man of real intellectual
power can be an animus, for the animus must be a master
3 There are excellent descriptions of this type in H. Rider Haggard's
She (London, 1887) and Pierre Benoit's UAtlantide (Paris, 1920;
translated by Mary C. Tongue and Mary Ross as Atlantida, New
York, 1920).
Marriage as a Psychological Relationship : 175
not so much of fine ideas as of fine words — words seem-
ingly full of meaning which purport to leave a great deal
unsaid. He must also belong to the "misunderstood" class,
or be in some way at odds with his environment, so that
the idea of self-sacrifice can insinuate itself. He must be
a rather questionable hero, a man with possibilities, which is
not to say that an animus projection may not discover a
real hero long before he has become perceptible to the
sluggish wits of the man of "average intelligence." 4
For man as well as for woman, in so far as they are
"containers," the filling out of this image is an experience
fraught with consequences, for it holds the possibility of
finding one's own complexities answered by a correspond-
ing diversity. Wide vistas seem to open up in which one
feels oneself embraced and contained. I say "seem" ad-
visedly, because the experience may be two-faced. Just as
the animus projection of a woman can often pick on a man
of real significance who is not recognized by the mass, and
can actually help him to achieve his true destiny with her
moral support, so a man can create for himself a femme in-
spiratrice by his anima projection. But more often it turns
out to be an illusion with destructive consequences, a
failure because his faith was not sufficiently strong. To the
pessimists I would say that these primordial psychic images
have an extraordinarily positive value, but I must warn
the optimists against blinding fantasies and the likelihood
of the most absurd aberrations.
One should on no account take this projection for an
individual and conscious relationship. In its first stages it is
far from that, for it creates a compulsive dependence based
on unconscious motives other than the biological ones.
Rider Haggard's She gives some indication of the curious
world of ideas that underlies the anima projection. They
* A passably good account of the animus is to be found in Marie
Hay's book The Evil Vineyard (New York, 1923), also in Elinor
Wy lie's Jennifer Lorn (New York, 1 923) and Selma Lagerlofs
Gosta Berlings Saga ( 1 89 1 ; English translation by P. B. Flach, The
Story of Gosta Berling, 1898).
Ij6 : The Development of Personality
are in essence spiritual contents, often in erotic disguise,
obvious fragments of a primitive mythological mentality
that consists of archetypes, and whose totality constitutes
the collective unconscious. Accordingly, such a relation-
ship is at bottom collective and not individual. (Benoit,
who created in L'Atlantide a fantasy figure similar even
in details to "She," denies having plagiarized Rider Hag-
gard.)
If such a projection fastens on to one of the marriage
partners, a collective spiritual relationship conflicts with
the collective biological one and produces in the container
the division or disintegration I have described above. If
he is able to hold his head above water, he will find him-
self through this very conflict. In that case the projection,
though dangerous in itself, will have helped him to pass
from a collective to an individual relationship. This amounts
to full conscious realization of the relationship that mar-
riage brings. Since the aim of this paper is a discussion of
the psychology of marriage, the psychology of projection
cannot concern us here. It is sufficient to mention it as a
fact.
One can hardly deal with the psychological marriage
relationship without mentioning, even at the risk of mis-
understanding, the nature of its critical transitions. As is
well known, one understands nothing psychological unless
one has experienced it oneself. Not that this ever prevents
anyone from feeling convinced that his own judgment is
the only true and competent one. This disconcerting fact
comes from the necessary overvaluation of the momentary
content of consciousness, for without this concentration
of attention one could not be conscious at all. Thus it is
that every period of life has its own psychological truth,
and the same applies to every stage of psychological de-
velopment. There are even stages which only the few can
reach, it being a question of race, family, education, talent,
and passion. Nature is aristocratic. The normal man is a
fiction, although certain generally valid laws do exist. Psy-
Marriage as a Psychological Relationship : IJJ
chic life is a development that can easily be arrested on the
lowest levels. It is as though every individual had a specific
gravity, in accordance with which he either rises, or sinks
down, to the level where he reaches his limit. His views
and convictions will be determined accordingly. No won-
der, then, that by far the greater number of marriages
reach their upper psychological limit in fulfilment of the
biological aim, without injury to spiritual or moral health.
Relatively few people fall into deeper disharmony with
themselves. Where there is a great deal of pressure from
outside, the conflict is unable to develop much dramatic
tension for sheer lack of energy. Psychological insecurity,
however, increases in proportion to social security, uncon-
sciously at first, causing neuroses, then consciously, bring-
ing with it separations, discord, divorces, and other marital
disorders. On still higher levels, new possibilities of psy-
chological development are discerned, touching on the
sphere of religion where critical judgment comes to a halt.
Progress may be permanently arrested on any of these
levels, with complete unconsciousness of what might have
followed at the next stage of development. As a rule
graduation to the next stage is barred by violent prejudices
and superstitious fears. This, however, serves a most useful
purpose, since a man who is compelled by accident to
live at a level too high for him becomes a fool and a
menace.
Nature is not only aristocratic, she is also esoteric. Yet
no man of understanding will thereby be induced to make
a secret of what he knows, for he realizes only too well
that the secret of psychic development can never be be-
trayed, simply because that development is a question of
individual capacity.
Psychological Types
General Description of the Types
I. Introduction
In the following pages I shall attempt a general description
of the psychology of the types, starting with the two basic
types I have termed introverted and extraverted. This will
be followed by a description of those more special types
whose peculiarities are due to the fact that the individual
adapts and orients himself chiefly by means of his most
differentiated function. The former I would call attitude-
types, distinguished by the direction of their interest, or of
the movement of libido; the latter I would call function**
types.
The attitude-types, as I have repeatedly emphasized in
the preceding chapters, 1 are distinguished by their attitude
1 Chapters of Psychological Types {Collected Works, Vol. 6), Part I.
The present selection is from Part II, pars. 556-671. [Originally
published in German as Psychologische Typen, Raschcr Vcrlag,
Zurich, 1921, and as Volume 6 in the Gesamnielte Werke, Rascher
Vcrlag, Zurich, 1960; 2nd edition, 1967. The H. G. Bayncs transla-
tion of Psychological Types was published in 1923 by Kcgan Paul,
London, and Harcourt, Brace and Co., New York. The present
translation by R. F. C. Hull is based on this.— Editors of The
Collected Works.]
178
General Description of the Types : 179
to the object. The introvert's attitude is an abstracting one;
at bottom, he is always intent on withdrawing libido from
the object, as though he had to prevent the object from gain-
ing power over him. The extravert, on the contrary, has a
positive relation to the object. He affirms its importance
to such an extent that his subjective attitude is constantly
related to and oriented by the object. The object can never
have enough value for him, and its importance must always
be increased. The two types are so different and present
such a striking contrast that their existence becomes quite
obvious even to the layman once it has been pointed out.
Everyone knows those reserved, inscrutable, rather shy
people who form the strongest possible contrast to the
open, sociable, jovial, or at least friendly and approachable
characters who are on good terms with everybody, or
quarrel with everybody, but always relate to them in some
way and in turn are affected by them.
One is naturally inclined, at first, to regard such differ-
ences as mere idiosyncrasies of character peculiar to in-
dividuals. But anyone with a thorough knowledge of human
nature will soon discover that the contrast is by no means
a matter of isolated individual instances but of typical
attitudes which are far more common than one with
limited psychological experience would assume. Indeed,
as the preceding chapters may have shown, it is a funda-
mental contrast, sometimes quite clear, sometimes obscured,
but always apparent when one is dealing with individuals
whose personality is in any way pronounced. Such people
are found not merely among the educated, but in all ranks
of society, so that our types can be discovered among
labourers and peasants no less than among the most
highly differentiated members of a community. Sex makes
no difference cither; one finds the same contrast among
women of all classes. Such a widespread distribution could
hardly have. come about if it were merely a question of a
conscious and deliberate choice oi attitude. In that case,
one would surely find one particular attitude in one partic-
i8o : Psychological Types
ular class of people linked together by a common education
and background and localized accordingly. But that is not
so at all; on the contrary, the types seem to be distributed
quite at random. In the same family one child is introverted,
the other extraverted. Since the facts show that the attitude-
type is a general phenomenon having an apparently random
distribution, it cannot be a matter of conscious judgment
or conscious intention, but must be due to some uncon-
scious, instinctive cause. As a general psychological phe-
nomenon, therefore, the type-antithesis must have some
kind of biological foundation.
The relation between subject and object, biologically
considered, is always one of adaptation, since every relation
between subject and object presupposes the modification of
one by the other through reciprocal influence. Adaptation
consists in these constant modifications. The typical atti-
tudes to the object, therefore, are processes of adaptation.
There are in nature two fundamentally different modes of
adaptation which ensure the continued existence of the
living organism. The one consists in a high rate of fertility,
with low powers of defence and short duration of life for
the single individual; the other consists in equipping the
individual with numerous means of self-preservation plus
a low fertility rate. This biological difference, it seems to
me, is not merely analogous to, but the actual foundation
of, our two psychological modes of adaptation. I must con-
tent myself with this broad hint. It is sufficient to note that
the peculiar nature of the cxtravert constantly urges him to
expend and propagate himself in every way, while the
tendency of the introvert is to defend himself against all
demands from outside, to conserve his energy by with-
drawing it from objects, thereby consolidating his own
position. Blake's intuition did not err when he described
the two classes of men as "prolific" and "devouring." 2
Just as, biologically, the two modes of adaptation work
-William Blake, "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell," G. Keynes,
cd., Complete Writings of William Blake (London, 1925), p. 155.
General Description of the Types : 181
equally well and are successful in their own way, so too
with the typical attitudes. The one achieves its end by a
multiplicity of relationships, the other by monopoly.
The fact that children often exhibit a typical attitude
quite unmistakably even in their earliest years forces us to
assume that it cannot be the struggle for existence in the
ordinary sense that determines a particular attitude. It
might be objected, cogently enough, that even the infant
at the breast has to perform an unconscious act of psycho-
logical adaptation, in that the mother's influence leads to
specific reactions in the child. This argument, while sup-
ported by incontestable evidence, becomes rather flimsy in
face of the equally incontestable fact that two children of
the same mother may exhibit contrary attitudes at an early
age, though no change in the mother's attitude can be
demonstrated. Although nothing would induce me to under-
rate the incalculable importance of parental influence, this
familiar experience compels me to conclude that the de-
cisive factor must be looked for in the disposition of the
child. Ultimately, it must be the individual disposition
which decides whether the child will belong to this or that
type despite the constancy of external conditions. Naturally
I am thinking only of normal cases. Under abnormal con-
ditions, i.e., when the mother's own attitude is extreme, a
similar attitude can be forced on the children too, thus
violating their individual disposition, which might have
opted for another type if no abnormal external influences
had intervened. As a rule, whenever such a falsification of
type takes place as a result of parental influence, the in-
dividual becomes neurotic later, and can be cured only by
developing the attitude consonant with his nature.
As to the individual disposition, I have nothing to say
except that there arc obviously individuals who have a
greater capacity, or to whom it is more congenial, to adapt
in one way and not in another. It may well be that physio-
logical causes of which we have no knowledge play a part
in this. I do not think it improbable, in view of one's ex-
182 : Psychological Types
perience that a reversal of type often proves exceedingly
harmful to the physiological well-being of the organism,
usually causing acute exhaustion.
2. The Extraverted Type
In our description of this and the following types it is
necessary, for the sake of clarity, to distinguish between
the psychology of consciousness and the psychology of
the unconscious. We shall first describe the phenomena of
consciousness.
a) The General Attitude of Consciousness
Although it is true that everyone orients himself in
accordance with the data supplied by the outside world,
we see every day that the data in themselves are only rel-
atively decisive. The fact that it is cold outside prompts
one man to put on his overcoat, while another, who wants
to get hardened, finds this superfluous. One man admires
the latest tenor because everybody else does, another refuses
to do so, not because he dislikes him, but because in his
view the subject of universal admiration is far from having
been proved admirable. One man resigns himself to cir-
cumstances because experience has shown him that nothing
else is possible, another is convinced that though things
have gone the same way a thousand times before, the
thousand and first time will be different. The one allows
himself to be oriented by the given facts, the other holds in
reserve a view which interposes itself between him and
the objective data. Now, when orientation by the object
predominates in such a way that decisions and actions are
determined not by subjective views but by objective con-
ditions, we speak of an extraverted attitude. When this is
habitual, we speak of an extraverted type. If a man
General Description of the Types : 183
thinks, feels, acts, and actually lives in a way that is directly
correlated with the objective conditions and their demands,
he is extraverted. His life makes it perfectly clear that it is
the object and not his subjective view that plays the deter-
mining role in his consciousness. Naturally he has subjective
views too, but their determining value is less than that of
the objective conditions. Consequently, he never expects
to find any absolute factors in his own inner life, since
the only ones he knows are outside himself. Like Epime-
theus, his inner life is subordinated to external necessity,
though not without a struggle; but it is always the objective
determinant that wins in the end. His whole conscious-
ness looks outward, because the essential and decisive deter-
minant always comes from outside. But it comes from out-
side only because that is where he expects it to come from.
All the peculiarities of his psychology, except those that
depend on the primacy of one particular psychological
function or on idiosyncrasies of character, follow from
this basic attitude. His interest and attention are directed
to objective happenings, particularly those in his immediate
environment. Not only people but things seize and rivet
his attention. Accordingly, they also determine his actions,
which are fully explicable on those grounds. The actions of
the extravert are recognizably related to external conditions.
In so far as they are not merely reactive to environmental
stimuli, they have a character that is always adapted to the
actual circumstances, and they find sufficient play within
the limits of the objective situation. No serious effort is
made to transcend these bounds. It is the same with his
interest: objective happenings have an almost inexhaustible
fascination for him, so that ordinarily he never looks for
anything else.
The moral laws governing his actions coincide with the
demands of society, that is, with the prevailing moral stand-
point. If this were to change, the extravert's subjective
moral guidelines would change accordingly, without this
altering his general psychological habits in any way. This
184 : Psychological Types
strict determination by objective factors does not mean, as
one might suppose, a complete let alone ideal adaptation
to the general conditions of life. In the eyes of the extravert,
of course, an adjustment of this kind to the objective situa-
tion must seem like complete adaptation, since for him
no other criterion exists. But from a higher point of view
it by no means follows that the objective situation is in
all circumstances a normal one. It can quite well be tem-
porarily or locally abnormal. An individual who adjusts
himself to it is admittedly conforming to the style of his
environment, but together with his whole surroundings he
is in an abnormal situation with respect to the universally
valid laws of life. He may indeed thrive in such surround-
ings, but only up to the point where he and his milieu
meet with disaster for transgressing these laws. He will
share the general collapse to exactly the same extent as he
was adjusted to the previous situation. Adjustment is not
adaptation; adaptation requires far more than merely going
along smoothly with the conditions of the moment. (Once
again I would remind the reader of Spitteler's Epimetheus.)
It requires observance of laws more universal than the
immediate conditions of time and place. The very adjust-
ment of the normal extraverted type is his limitation. He
owes his normality on the one hand to his ability to fit
into existing conditions with comparative ease. His re-
quirements are limited to the objectively possible, for in-
stance to the career that holds out good prospects at this
particular moment; he does what is needed of him, or what
is expected of him, and refrains from all innovations that
are not entirely self-evident or that in any way exceed the
expectations of those around him. On the other hand, his
normality must also depend essentially on whether he
takes account of his subjective needs and requirements,
and this is just his weak point, for the tendency of his
type is so outer-directed that even the most obvious of all
subjective facts, the condition of his own body, receives
scant attention. The body is not sufficiently objective or
General Description of the Types : 185
"outside," so that the satisfaction of elementary needs
which are indispensable to physical well-being is no longer
given its due. The body accordingly suffers, to say nothing
of the psyche. The extravert is usually unaware of this
latter fact, but it is all the more apparent to his household.
He feels his loss of equilibrium only when it announces
itself in abnormal body sensations. These he cannot ignore.
It is quite natural that he should regard them as concrete
and "objective," since with his type of mentality they cannot
be anything else — for him. In others he at once sees "imagi-
nation" at work. A too extraverted attitude can also become
so oblivious of the subject that the latter is sacrificed com-
pletely to so-called objective demands — to the demands, for
instance, of a continually expanding business, because
orders are piling up and profitable opportunities have to be
exploited.
This is the extravert's danger: he gets sucked into objects
and completely loses himself in them. The resultant func-
tional disorders, nervous or physical, have a compensatory
value, as they force him into an involuntary self-restraint.
Should the symptoms be functional, their peculiar char-
acter may express his psychological situation in symbolic
form; for instance, a singer whose fame has risen to danger-
ous heights that tempt him to expend too much energy
suddenly finds he cannot sing high notes because of some
nervous inhibition. Or a man of modest beginnings who
rapidly reaches a social position of great influence with
wide prospects is suddenly afflicted with all the symptoms
of a mountain sickness. 3 Again, a man about to marry a
woman of doubtful character whom he adores and vastly
overestimates is seized with a nervous spasm of the oesoph-
agus and has to restrict himself to two cups of milk a
day, each of which takes him three hours to consume.
All visits to the adored are effectively stopped, and he
3 For a detailed discussion of this case see Jung, Analytical Psy-
chology: Its Theory and Practice (New York and London, 1968),
pp. 871T.— J.C.
i86 : Psychological Types
has no choice but to devote himself to the nourishment of
his body. Or a man who can no longer carry the weight
of the huge business he has built up is afflicted with nervous
attacks of thirst and speedily falls a victim to hysterical
alcoholism.
Hysteria is, in my view, by far the most frequent neurosis
of the extraverted type. The hallmark of classic hysteria is
an exaggerated rapport with persons in the immediate
environment and an adjustment to surrounding conditions
that amounts to imitation. A constant tendency to make
himself interesting and to produce an impression is a basic
feature of the hysteric. The corollary of this is his prover-
bial suggestibility, his proneness to another person's influ-
ence. Another unmistakable sign of the extraverted hysteric
is his effusiveness, which occasionally carries him into the
realm of fantasy, so that he is accused of the "hysterical
lie." The hysterical character begins as an exaggeration of
the normal attitude; it is then complicated by compensatory
reactions from the unconscious, which counteract the
exaggerated extraversion by means of physical symptoms
that force the libido to introvert. The reaction of the un-
conscious produces another class of symptoms having a
more introverted character, one of the most typical being
a morbid intensification of fantasy activity.
After this general outline of the extraverted attitude
we shall now turn to a description of the modifications
which the basic psychological functions undergo as a result
of this attitude.
b) The Attitude of the Unconscious
It may perhaps seem odd that I should speak of an
"attitude of the unconscious." As I have repeatedly indi-
cated, I regard the attitude of the unconscious as com-
pensatory to consciousness. According to this view, the un-
General Description of the Types : 187
conscious has as good a claim to an "attitude" as the
latter.
In the preceding section I emphasized the tendency to
one-sidedness in the extraverted attitude, due to the as-
cendency of the object over the course of psychic events.
The extraverted type is constantly tempted to expend him-
self for the apparent benefit of the object, to assimilate
subject to object. I have discussed in some detail the harm-
ful consequences of an exaggeration of the extraverted
attitude, namely, the suppression of the subjective factor.
It is only to be expected, therefore, that the psychic com-
pensation of the conscious extraverted attitude will lay
special weight on the subjective factor, and that we shall
find a markedly egocentric tendency in the unconscious.
Practical experience proves this to be the case. I do not
wish to cite case material at this point, so must refer my
readers to the ensuing sections, where I try to present the
characteristic attitude of the unconscious in each function-
type. In this section we are concerned simply with the
compensation of the extraverted attitude in general, so I
shall confine myself to describing the attitude of the un-
conscious in equally general terms.
The attitude of the unconscious as an effective comple-
ment to the conscious extraverted attitude has a definitely
introverting character. It concentrates the libido on the
subjective factor, that is, on all those needs and demands
that are stifled or repressed by the conscious attitude. As
may be gathered from what was said in the previous sec-
tion, a purely objective orientation does violence to a
multitude of subjective impulses, intentions, needs, and
desires and deprives them of the libido that is their natural
right. Man is not a machine that can be remodelled for
quite other purposes as occasion demands, in the hope that
it will go on functioning as regularly as before but in a
quite different way. He carries his whole history with him;
in his very structure is written the history of mankind.
This historical element in man represents a vital need to
i88 : Psychological Types
which a wise psychic economy must respond. Somehow the
past must come alive and participate in the present. Total
assimilation to the object will always arouse the protest
of the suppressed minority of those elements that belong
to the past and have existed from the very beginning.
From these general considerations it is easy to see why
the unconscious demands of the extravert have an essen-
tially primitive, infantile, egocentric character. When Freud
says that the unconscious "can do nothing but wish" this
is very largely true of the unconscious of the extravert.
His adjustment to the objective situation and his assimila-
tion to the object prevent low-powered subjective impulses
from reaching consciousness. These impulses (thoughts,
wishes, affects, needs, feelings, etc.) take on a regressive
character according to the degree of repression; the less
they are acknowledged, the more infantile and archaic they
become. The conscious attitude robs them of all energy
that is readily disposable, only leaving them the energy of
which it cannot deprive them. This residue, which still
possesses a potency not to be underestimated, can be
described only as primordial instinct. Instinct can never be
eradicated in an individual by arbitrary measures; it requires
the slow, organic transformation of many generations to
effect a radical change, for instinct is the energic expression
of the organism's make-up.
Thus with every repressed impulse a considerable amount
of energy ultimately remains, of an instinctive character,
and preserves its potency despite the deprivation that made
it unconscious. The more complete the conscious attitude
of extraversion is, the more infantile and archaic 'the un-
conscious attitude will be. The egoism which characterizes
the extravert's unconscious attitude goes far beyond mere
childish selfishness; it verges on the ruthless and the brutal.
Here we find in full flower the incest-wish described by
Freud. It goes without saying that these things are entirely
unconscious and remain hidden from the layman so long
as the extraversion of the conscious attitude is not extreme.
General Description of the Types : i8g
But whenever it is exaggerated, the unconscious comes to
light in symptomatic form; its egoism, infantilism, and
archaism lose their original compensatory character and
appear in more or less open opposition to the conscious '
attitude. This begins as an absurd exaggeration of the con-
scious standpoint, aiming at a further repression of the
unconscious, but usually it ends in a reductio ad absurdum
of the conscious attitude and hence in catastrophe. The
catastrophe may take an objective form, since the objective
aims gradually become falsified by the subjective. I remem-
ber the case of a printer who, starting as a mere employee,
worked his way up after years of hard struggle till at last
he became the owner of a flourishing business. The more
it expanded, the more it tightened its hold on him, until
finally it swallowed up all his other interests. This proved
his ruin. As an unconscious compensation of his exclusive
interest in the business, certain memories of his childhood
came to life. As a child he had taken great delight in paint-
ing and drawing. But instead of renewing this capacity for
its own sake as a compensating hobby, he channelled it
into his business and began wondering how he might em-
bellish his products in an "artistic" way. Unfortunately
his fantasies materialized: he actually turned out stuff that
suited his own primitive and infantile taste, with the result
that after a very few years his business went to pieces. He
acted in accordance with one of our "cultural ideals,"
which says that any enterprising person has to concentrate
everything on the one aim in view. But he went too far,
and merely fell a victim to the power of his infantile de-
mands.
The catastrophe can, however, also be subjective and
take the form of a nervous breakdown. This invariably
happens when the influence of the unconscious finally
paralyzes all conscious action. The demands of the un-
conscious then force themselves imperiously on conscious-
ness and bring about a disastrous split which shows itself
in one of two ways: either the subject no longer knows
igo : Psychological Types
what he really wants and nothing interests him, or he
wants too much at once and has too many interests, but in
impossible things. The suppression of infantile and primi-
tive demands for cultural reasons easily leads to a neurosis
or to the abuse of narcotics such as alcohol, morphine,
cocaine, etc. In more extreme cases the split ends in suicide.
It is an outstanding peculiarity of unconscious impulses
that, when deprived of energy by lack of conscious recog-
nition, they take on a destructive character, and this hap-
pens as soon as they cease to be compensatory. Their com-
pensatory function ceases as soon as they reach a depth
corresponding to a cultural level absolutely incompatible
with our own. From this moment the unconscious impulses
form a block in every way opposed to the conscious atti-
tude, and its very existence leads to open conflict.
Generally speaking, the compensating attitude of the
unconscious finds expression in the maintenance of the
psychic equilibrium. A normal extraverted attitude does
not, of course, mean that the individual invariably behaves
in accordance with the extraverted schema. Even in the
same individual many psychological processes may be ob-
served that involve the mechanism of introversion. We call
a mode of behaviour extraverted only when the mechanism
of extraversion predominates. In these cases the most differ-
entiated function is always employed in an extraverted way,
whereas the inferior functions are introverted; 4 in other
words, the superior function is the most conscious one
and completely under conscious control, whereas the less
differentiated functions are in part unconscious and far
less under the control of consciousness. The superior
function is always an expression of the conscious person-
ality, of its aims, will, and general performance, whereas
the less differentiated functions fall into the category of
* The "psychological functions" here referred to are those named in
Selection 2, "The Structure of the Psyche," and discussed at length
below, namely, Sensation, Thinking, Feeling, and Intuition. See also
supra, Editor's Introduction, pp, xxvi-xxviii. — J.C,
General Description of the Types : 191
things that simply "happen" to one. These things need not
be mere slips of the tongue or pen and other such over-
sights, they can equally well be half or three-quarters in-
tended, for the less differentiated functions also possess a
slight degree of consciousness. A classic example of this is
the extraverted feeling type, who enjoys an excellent feeling
rapport with the people around him, yet occasionally "hap-
pens" to express opinions of unsurpassable tactlessness.
These opinions spring from his inferior and half-conscious
thinking, which, being only partly under his control and
insufficiently related to the object, can be quite ruthless in
its effects.
The less differentiated functions of the extravert always
show a highly subjective colouring with pronounced ego-
centricity and personal bias, thus revealing their close con-
nection with the unconscious. The unconscious is con-
tinually coming to light through them. It should not be
imagined that the unconscious lies permanently buried
under so many overlying strata that it can only be un-
covered, so to speak, by a laborious process of excavation.
On the contrary, there is a constant influx of unconscious
contents into the conscious psychological process, to such
a degree that at times it is hard for the observer to decide
which character traits belong to the conscious and which
to the unconscious personality. This difficulty is met with
mainly in people who are given to express themselves more
profusely than others. Naturally it also depends very
largely on the attitude of the observer whether he seizes
hold of the conscious or the unconscious character of the
personality. Generally speaking, a judging observer will
tend to seize on the conscious character, while a perceptive
observer will be more influenced by the unconscious char-
acter, since judgment is chiefly concerned with the con-
scious motivation of the psychic process, while perception
registers the process itself. But in so far as we apply judg-
ment and perception in equal measure, it may easily happen
that a personality appears to us as both introverted and
jg2 : Psychological Types
extraverted, so that we cannot decide at first to which
attitude the superior function belongs. In such cases only
a thorough analysis of the qualities of each function can
help us to form a valid judgment. We must observe which
function is completely under conscious control, and which
functions have a haphazard and spontaneous character. The
former is always more highly differentiated than the latter,
which also possess infantile and primitive traits. Occasion-
ally the superior function gives the impression of normality,
while the others have something abnormal or pathological
about them.
c) The Peculiarities of the Basic Psychological
Functions in the Extraverted Attitude
Thinking
As a consequence of the general attitude of extraversion,
thinking is oriented by the object and objective data. This
gives rise to a noticeable peculiarity. Thinking in general
is fed on the one hand from subjective and in the last
resort unconscious sources, and on the other hand from
objective data transmitted by sense-perception. Extraverted
thinking is conditioned in a larger measure by the latter
than by the former. Judgment always presupposes a cri-
terion; for the extraverted judgment, the criterion supplied
by external conditions is the valid and determining one, no
matter whether it be represented directly by an objective,
perceptible fact or by an objective idea; for an objective
idea is equally determined by external data or borrowed
from outside even when it is subjectively sanctioned. Ex-
traverted thinking, therefore, need not necessarily be purely
concretistic thinking; it can just as well be purely ideal
thinking, if for instance it can be shown that the ideas it
operates with are largely borrowed from outside, i.e., have
been transmitted by tradition and education. So in judging
General Description of the Types : 193
whether a particular thinking is extraverted or not we must
first ask: by what criterion does it judge — does it come
from outside, or is its origin subjective? A further criterion
is the direction the thinking takes in drawing conclusions
— whether it is principally directed outwards or not. It is
no proof of its extraverted nature that it is preoccupied
with concrete objects, since my thinking may be pre-
occupied with a concrete object either because I am ab-
stracting my thought from it or because I am concretizing
my thought through it. Even when my thinking is pre-
occupied with concrete things and could be described as
extraverted to that extent, the direction it will take still
remains an essential characteristic and an open question —
namely, whether or not in its further course it leads back
again to objective data, external facts, or generally accepted
ideas. So far as the practical thinking of the business man,
the technician, or the scientific investigator is concerned, its
outer-directedness is obvious enough. But in the case of
the philosopher it remains open to doubt when his thinking
is directed to ideas. We then have to inquire whether these
ideas are simply abstractions from objective experience,
in which case they would represent higher collective con-
cepts comprising a sum of objective facts, or whether (if
they are clearly not abstractions from immediate experi-
ence) they may not be derived from tradition or borrowed
from the intellectual atmosphere of the time. In the
latter case, they fall into the category of objective data, and
accordingly this thinking should be called extraverted.
Although I do not propose to discuss the nature of intro-
verted thinking at this point, reserving it for a later section
(infra, pp. 237-45), it is essential that I should say a
few words about it before proceeding further. For if one
reflects on what I have just said about extraverted thinking,
one might easily conclude that this covers everything that
is ordinarily understood as thinking. A thinking that is
directed neither to objective facts nor to general ideas,
one might argue, scarcely deserves the name "thinking"
194 * Psychological Types
at all. I am fully aware that our age and its most eminent
representatives know and acknowledge only the extra-
verted type of thinking. This is largely because all the
thinking that appears visibly on the surface in the form of
science or philosophy or even art either derives directly
from objects or else flows into general ideas. For both
these reasons it appears essentially understandable, even
though it may not always be self-evident, and it is there*
fore regarded as valid. In this sense it might be said that the
extraverted intellect oriented by objective data is actually
the only one that is recognized. But — and now I come to
the question of the introverted intellect — there also exists
an entirely different kind of thinking, to which the term
"thinking" can hardly be denied: it is a kind that is oriented
neither by immediate experience of objects nor by tradi-
tional ideas. I reach this other kind of thinking in the
following manner: when my thoughts are preoccupied with
a concrete object or a general idea, in such a way that the
course of my thinking eventually leads me back to my
starting-point, this intellectual process is not the only
psychic process that is going on in me. I will disregard all
those sensations and feelings which become noticeable as
a more or less disturbing accompaniment to my train of
thought, and will merely point out that this very thinking
process which starts from the object and returns to the
object also stands in a constant relation to the subject,
This relation is a sine qua non, without which no thinking
process whatsoever could take place. Even though my think-
ing process is directed, as far as possible, to objective data,
it is still my subjective process, and it can neither avoid nor
dispense with this admixture of subjectivity. Struggle as I
may to give an objective orientation to my train of thought,
I cannot shut out the parallel subjective process and its
running accompaniment without extinguishing the very
spark of life from my thought. This parallel process has
a natural and hardly avoidable tendency to subjectify the
objective data and assimilate them to the subject.
Now when the main accent lies on the subjective process,
General Description of the Types : 195
that other kind of thinking arises which is opposed to extra-
verted thinking, namely, that purely subjective orientation
which I call introverted. This thinking is neither determined
by objective data nor directed to them; it is a thinking that
starts from the subject and is directed to subjective ideas or
subjective facts. I do not wish to enter more fully into this
kind of thinking here; I have merely established its exist-
ence as the necessary complement of extraverted thinking
and brought it into clearer focus.
Extraverted thinking, then, comes into existence only
when the objective orientation predominates. This fact
does nothing to alter the logic of thinking; it merely
constitutes that difference between thinkers which James
considered a matter of temperament. 5 Orientation to the
object, as already explained, makes no essential change in
the thinking function; only its appearance is altered. It
has the appearance of being captivated by the object, as
though without the external orientation it simply could not
exist. It almost seems as though it were a mere sequela of
external facts, or as though it could reach its highest point
only when flowing into some general idea. It seems to be
constantly affected by the objective data and to draw con-
clusions only with their consent. Hence it gives one the
impression of a certain lack of freedom, of occasional short-
sightedness, in spite of all its adroitness within the area
circumscribed by the objects. What I am describing is
simply the impression this sort of thinking makes on the
observer, who must himself have a different standpoint,
otherwise it would be impossible for him to observe the
phenomenon of extraverted thinking at all. But because
of his different standpoint he sees only its outward aspect,
not its essence, whereas the thinker himself can apprehend
its essence but not its outward aspect. Judging by appear-
ances can never do justice to the essence of the thing, hence
the verdict is in most cases depreciatory.
In its essence this thinking is no less fruitful and creative
William James, Pragmatism (London, 191 1): the "tough minded"
and the "tender minded" lemperamenls.
ig6 : Psychological Types
than introverted thinking, it merely serves other ends. This
difference becomes quite palpable when extraverted think-
ing appropriates material that is the special province of
introverted thinking; when, for instance, a subjective con-
viction is explained analytically in terms of objective data
or as being derived from objective ideas. For our scientific
consciousness, however, the difference becomes even more
obvious when introverted thinking attempts to bring ob-
jective data into connections not warranted by the object —
in other words, to subordinate them to a subjective idea.
Each type of thinking senses the other as an encroachment
on its own province, and hence a sort of shadow effect is
produced, each revealing to the other its least favourable
aspect. Introverted thinking then appears as something
quite arbitrary, while extraverted thinking seems dull and
banal. Thus the two orientations are incessantly at war.
One might think it easy enough to put an end to this
conflict by making a clear distinction between objective
and subjective data. Unfortunately, this is impossible,
though not a few have attempted it. And even if it were
possible it would be a disastrous proceeding, since in
themselves both orientations are one-sided and of limited
validity, so that each needs the influence of the other. When
objective data predominate over thinking to any great ex-
tent, thinking is sterilized, becoming a mere appendage of
the object and no longer capable of abstracting itself into
an independent concept. It is then reduced to a kind of
"after-thought," by which I do not mean "reflection" but
a purely imitative thinking which affirms nothing beyond
what was visibly and immediately present in the objective
data in the first place. This thinking naturally leads di-
rectly back to the object, but never beyond it, not even to
a linking of experience with an objective idea. Conversely,
when it has an idea for an object, it is quite unable to
experience its practical, individual value, but remains stuck
in a more or less tautological position. The materialistic
mentality is an instructive example of this.
General Description of the Types : 197
When extraverted thinking is subordinated to objective
data as a result of over-determination by the object, it en-
grosses itself entirely in the individual experience and
accumulates a mass of undigested empirical material. The
oppressive weight of individual experiences having little or
no connection with one another produces a dissociation of
thought which usually requires psychological compensation.
This must consist in some simple, general idea that gives
coherence to the disordered whole, or at least affords the
possibility of such. Ideas like "matter" or "energy" serve
this purpose. But when the thinking depends primarily not
on objective data but on some second-hand idea, the very
poverty of this thinking is compensated by an all the more
impressive accumulation of facts congregating round a
narrow and sterile point of view, with the result that many
valuable and meaningful aspects are completely lost sight
of. Many of the allegedly scientific outpourings of our own
day owe their existence to this wrong orientation.
The Extraverted Thinking Type
It is a fact of experience that the basic psychological
functions seldom or never all have the same strength or
degree of development in the same individual. As a rule,
one or the other function predominates in both strength
and development. When thinking holds prior place among
the psychological functions, i.e., when the life of an in-
dividual is mainly governed by reflective thinking so that
every important action proceeds, or is intended to proceed,
from intellectually considered motives, we may fairly call
this a thinking type. Such a type may be either introverted
or extraverted. We will first discuss the extraverted think-
ing type.
This type will, by definition, be a man whose constant
endeavour — in so far, of course, as he is a pure type — is to
make all his activities dependent on intellectual conclusions,
ig8 : Psychological Types
which in the last resort are always oriented by objective
data, whether these be external facts or generally accepted
ideas. This type of man elevates objective reality, or an
objectively oriented intellectual formula, into the ruling
principle not only for himself but for his whole environ-
ment. By this formula good and evil are measured, and
beauty and ugliness determined. Everything that agrees
with this formula is right, everything that contradicts it is
wrong, and anything that passes by it indifferently is merely
incidental. Because this formula seems to embody the entire
meaning of life, it is made into a universal law which must
be put into effect everywhere all the time, both individually
and collectively. Just as the extraverted thinking type sub-
ordinates himself to his formula, so, for their own good,
everybody round him must obey it too, for whoever re-
fuses to obey it is wrong — he is resisting the universal law,
and is therefore unreasonable, immoral, and without a con-
science. His moral code forbids him to tolerate exceptions;
his ideal must under all circumstances be realized, for in
his eyes it is the purest conceivable formulation of objective
reality, and therefore must also be a universally valid truth,
quite indispensable for the salvation of mankind. This is
not from any great love for his neighbour, but from the
higher standpoint of justice and truth. Anything in his own
nature that appears to invalidate this formula is a mere
imperfection, an accidental failure, something to be elimi-
nated on the next occasion, or, in the event of further
failure, clearly pathological. If tolerance for the sick, the
suffering, or the abnormal should chance to be an ingredient
of the formula, special provisions will be made for humane
societies, hospitals, prisons, missions, etc., or at least ex-
tensive plans will be drawn up. Generally the motive of
justice and truth is not sufficient to ensure the actual execu-
tion of such projects; for this, real Christian charity is
needed, and this has more to do with feeling than with any
intellectual formula. "Oughts" and "musts" bulk large in
this programme. If the formula is broad enough, this type
General Description of the Types : 199
may play a very useful role in social life as a reformer or
public prosecutor or purifier of conscience, or as the prop-
agator of important innovations. But the more rigid the
formula, the more he develops into a martinet, a quibbler,
and a prig, who would like to force himself and others into
one mould. Here we have the two extremes between
which the majority of these types move.
In accordance with the nature of the extraverted attitude,
the influence and activities of these personalities are the
more favourable and beneficial the further from the centre
their radius extends. Their best aspect is to be found at the
periphery of their sphere of influence. The deeper we pene-
trate into their own power province, the more we feel the
unfavourable effects of their tyranny. A quite different life
pulses at the periphery, where the truth of the formula can
be felt as a vaulable adjunct to the rest. But the closer we
come to centre of power where the formula operates, the
more life withers away from everything that does not
conform to its dictates. Usually it is the nearest relatives
who have to taste the unpleasant consequences of the
extraverted formula, since they are the first to receive its
relentless benefits. But in the end it is the subject himself
who suffers most — and this brings us to the reverse side
of the psychology of this type.
The fact that an intellectual formula never has been
and never will be devised which could embrace and express
the manifold possibilities of life must lead to the inhibition
or exclusion of other activities and ways of living that are
just as important. In the first place, all those activities that
are dependent on feeling will become repressed in such a
type — for instance, aesthetic activities, taste, artistic sense,
cultivation of friends, etc. Irrational phenomena such as
religious experiences, passions, and suchlike are often
repressed to the point of complete unconsciousness. Doubt-
less there are exceptional people who are able to sacrifice
their entire life to a particular formula, but for most of us
such exclusiveness is impossible in the long run. Sooner
200 : Psychological Types
or later, depending on outer circumstances or inner disposi-
tion, the potentialities repressed by the intellectual attitude
will make themselves indirectly felt by disturbing the
conscious conduct of life. When the disturbance reaches
a definite pitch, we speak of a neurosis. In most cases it
does not go so far, because the individual instinctively
allows himself extenuating modifications of his formula in
a suitably rationalistic guise, thus creating a safety valve.
The relative or total unconsciousness of the tendencies
and functions excluded by the conscious attitude keeps
them in an undeveloped state. In comparison with the
conscious function they are inferior. To the extent that
they are unconscious, they become merged with the rest
of the unconscious contents and acquire a bizarre char-
acter. To the extent that they are conscious, they play
only a secondary role, though one of considerable im-
portance for the over-all psychological picture. The first
function to be affected by the conscious inhibition is feel-
ing, since it is the most opposed to the rigid intellectual
formula and is therefore repressed the most intensely. No
function can be entirely eliminated — it can only be greatly
distorted. In so far as feeling is compliant and lets itself
be subordinated, it has to support the conscious attitude
and adapt to its aims. But this is possible only up to a
point; part of it remains refractory and has to be repressed.
If the repression is successful, the subliminal feeling then
functions in a way that is opposed to the conscious aims,
even producing effects whose cause is a complete enigma
to the individual. For example, the conscious altruism of
this type, which is often quite extraordinary, may be
thwarted by a secret self-seeking which gives a selfish
twist to actions that in themselves are disinterested. Purely
ethical intentions may lead him into critical situations
which sometimes have more than a semblance of being
the outcome of motives far from ethical. There are guard-
ians of public morals who suddenly find themselves in
compromising situations, or rescue workers who are them-
General Description of the Types : 201
selves in dire need of rescue. Their desire to save others
leads them to employ means which are calculated to bring
about the very thing they wished to avoid. There are ex-
traverted idealists so consumed by their desire for the
salvation of mankind that they will not shrink from any
lie or trickery in pursuit of their ideal. In science there are
not a few painful examples of highly respected investiga-
tors who are so convinced of the truth and general validity
of their formula that they have not scrupled to falsify evi-
dence in its favour. Their sanction is: the end justifies the
means. Only an inferior feeling function, operating uncon-
sciously and in secret, could seduce otherwise reputable
men into such aberrations.
The inferiority of feeling in this type also manifests
itself in other ways. In keeping with the objective formula,
the conscious attitude becomes more or less impersonal,
often to such a degree that personal interests suffer. If the
attitude is extreme, all personal considerations are lost
sight of, even those affecting the subject's own person. His
health is neglected, his social position deteriorates, the
most vital interests of his family — health, finances, morals
— are violated for the sake of the ideal. Personal sympathy
with others must in any case suffer unless they too happen
to espouse the same ideal. Often the closest members of
his family, his own children, know such a father only as a
cruel tyrant, while the outside world resounds with the
fame of his humanity. Because of the highly impersonal
character of the conscious attitude, the unconscious feel-
ings are extremely personal and oversensitive, giving rise
to secret prejudices, a readiness, for instance, to miscon-
strue any opposition to his formula as personal ill-will, or
a constant tendency to make negative assumptions about
other people in order to invalidate their arguments in ad-
vance — in defence, naturally, of his own touchiness. His
unconscious sensitivity makes him sharp in tone, acrimoni-
ous, aggressive. Insinuations multiply. His feelings have a
sultry and resentful character — always a mark of the in-
202 : Psychological Types
fcrior function, Magnanimous as he may be in sacrificing
himself to his intellectual goal, his feelings are petty, mis~
trustful, crotchety, and conservative. Anything new that
is not already contained in his formula is seen through a
veil of unconscious hatred and condemned accordingly.
As late as the middle of the last century a certain doctor,
famed for his humanitarianism, threatened to dismiss an
assistant for daring to use a thermometer, because the
formula decreed that temperature must be taken by the
pulse.
The more the feelings are repressed, the more deleterious
is their secret influence on thinking that is otherwise be-
yond reproach. The intellectual formula, which because of
its intrinsic value might justifiably claim general recogni-
tion, undergoes a characteristic alteration as a result of
this unconscious personal sensitiveness: it becomes rigidly
dogmatic. The self-assertion of the personality is trans-
ferred to the formula. Truth is no longer allowed to speak
for itself; it is identified with the subject and treated like
a sensitive darling whom an evil-minded critic has wronged.
The critic is demolished, if possible with personal invec-
tive, and no argument is too gross to be used against him.
The truth must be trotted out, until finally it begins to
dawn on the public that it is not so much a question of
truth as of its personal begetter.
The dogmatism of the intellectual formula sometimes
undergoes further characteristic alterations, due not so
much to the unconscious admixture of repressed personal
feelings as to a contamination with other unconscious
factors which have become fused with them. Although
reason itself tells us that every intellectual formula can
never be anything more than a partial truth and can never
claim general validity, in practice the formula gains such
an ascendency that all other possible standpoints are thrust
into the background. It usurps the place of all more gen-
eral, less definite, more modest and therefore more truthful
views of life. It even supplants that general view of life we
General Description of the Types : 203
call religion. Thus the formula becomes a religion, al-
though in essentials it has not the slightest connection with
anything religious. At the same time, it assumes the essen-
tially religious quality of absoluteness. It becomes an in-
tellectual superstition. But now all the psychological tend-
encies it has repressed build up a counter-position in the
unconscious and give rise to paroxysms of doubt. The
more it tries to fend off the doubt, the more fanatical the
conscious attitude becomes, for fanaticism is nothing but
over-compensated doubt. This development ultimately
leads to an exaggerated defence of the conscious position
and to the formation of a counter-position in the uncon-
scious absolutely opposed to it; for instance, conscious
rationalism is opposed by an extreme irrationality, and a
scientific attitude by one that is archaic and superstitious.
This explains those bigoted and ridiculous views well-
known in the history of science which have proved stum-
bling-blocks to many an eminent investigator. Frequently
the unconscious counter-position is embodied in a woman.
In my experience this type is found chiefly among men,
since, in general, thinking tends more often to be a domi-
nant function in men than in women. When thinking
dominates in a woman it is usually associated with a pre-
dominantly intuitive cast of mind.
The thinking of the extraverted type is positive, i.e.,
productive. It leads to the discovery of new facts or to
general conceptions based on disparate empirical material.
It is usually synthetic too. Even when it analyzes it con-
structs, because it is always advancing beyond the analysis
to a new combination, to a further conception which re-
unites the analyzed material in a different way or adds
something to it. One could call this kind of judgment
predicative. A characteristic feature, at any rate, is that
it is never absolutely depreciative or destructive, since it
always substitutes a fresh value for the one destroyed.
This is because the thinking of this type is the main chan-
nel into which his vital energy flows. The steady How of
204 •' Psychological Types
life manifests itself in his thinking, so that his thought has
a progressive, creative quality. It is not stagnant or re^
gressive. But it can become so if it fails to retain prior
place in his consciousness. In that case it loses the quality
of a positive, vital activity. It follows in the wake of other
functions and becomes Epimethean, plagued by after-
thoughts, contenting itself with constant broodings on
things past and gone, chewing them over in an effort to
analyze and digest them. Since the creative element is now
lodged in another function, thinking no longer progresses:
it stagnates. Judgment takes on a distinct quality of in-
herence: it confines itself entirely to the range of the given
material, nowhere overstepping it. It is satisfied with more
or less abstract statements which do not impart any value
to the material that is not already inherent in it. Such
judgments are always oriented to the object, and they
affirm nothing more about an experience than its objective
and intrinsic meaning. We may easily observe this type
of thinking in people who cannot refrain from tacking on
to an impression or experience some rational and doubt-
less very valid remark which in no way ventures beyond
the charmed circle of the objective datum. At bottom such
a remark merely says: "I have understood it because after-
wards I can think it." And there the matter ends. At best
such a judgment amounts to no more than putting the
experience in an objective setting, where it quite obviously
belonged in the first place.
But whenever a function other than thinking predomi-
nates in consciousness to any marked degree, thinking, so
far as it is conscious at all and not directly dependent on
the dominant function, assumes a negative character. If
it is subordinated to the dominant function it may actually
wear a positive aspect, but closer scrutiny will show that
it simply mimics the dominant function, supporting it with
arguments that clearly contradict the laws of logic proper
to thinking. This kind of thinking is of no interest for our
present discussion. Our concern is rather with the nature
General Description of the Types : 20 5
of a thinking which cannot subordinate itself to another
function but remains true to its own principle. To observe
and investigate this thinking is not easy, because it is more
or less constantly repressed by the conscious attitude.
Hence, in the majority of cases, it must first be retrieved
from the background of consciousness, unless it should
come to the surface accidently in some unguarded moment.
As a rule it has to be enticed with some such question as
"Now what do you really think?" or "What is your private
view of the matter?" Or perhaps one may have to use a
little cunning, framing the question something like this:
"What do you imagine, then, that / really think about it?"
One should adopt this device when the real thinking is
unconscious and therefore projected. The thinking that
is enticed to the surface in this way has characteristic
qualities, and it was these 1 had in mind when I described
it as negative. Its habitual mode is best expressed by the
two words "nothing but." Goethe personified this thinking
in the figure of Mephistopheles. Above all it shows a dis-
tinct tendency to trace the object of its judgment back to
some banality or other, thus stripping it of any significance
in its own right. The trick is to make it appear dependent
on something quite commonplace. Whenever a conflict
arises between two men over something apparently objec-
tive and impersonal, negative thinking mutters "Cherchez
la femme." Whenever somebody defends or advocates a
cause, negative thinking never asks about its importance
but simply: "What does he get out of it?" The dictum
ascribed to Moleschott, "Der Mensch ist, was er isst" (man
is what he eats, or, rendered more freely, what you eat
you are), likewise comes under this heading, as do many
other aphorisms I need not quote here.
The destructive quality of this thinking, as well as its
limited usefulness on occasion, does not need stressing.
But there is still another form of negative thinking, which
at first glance might not be recognized as such, and that
is theosophical thinking, which today is rapidly spreading
206 : Psychological Types
in all parts of the world, presumably In reaction to the
materialism of the recent past, Theosophical thinking has
an air that is not in the least reductive, since it exalts
everything to a transcendental and world-embracing idea.
A dream, for instance, is no longer just a dream, but an
experience "on another plane." The hitherto inexplicable
fact of telepathy is very simply explained as "vibrations"
passing from one person to another. An ordinary nervous
complaint is explained by the fact that something has
collided with the "astral body," Certain ethnological pecu-
liarities of the dwellers on the Atlantic seaboard are easily
accounted for by the submergence of Atlantis, and so on.
We have only to open a theosophical book to be over-
whelmed by the realization that everything is already ex-
plained, and that "spiritual science" has left no enigmas
unsolved. But, at bottom, this kind of thinking is just as
negative as materialistic thinking. When the latter regards
psychology as chemical changes in the ganglia or as the
extrusion and retraction of cell-pseudopodia or as an in-
ternal secretion, this is just as much a superstition as
theosophy. The only difference is that materialism reduces
everything to physiology, whereas theosophy reduces every-
thing to Indian metaphysics. When a dream is traced back
to an overloaded stomach, this is no explanation of the
dream, and when we explain telepathy as vibrations we
have said just as little. For what are "vibrations"? Not
only are both methods of explanation futile, they are
actually destructive, because by diverting interest away
from the main issue, in one case to the stomach and in the
other to imaginary vibrations, they hamper any serious
investigation of the problem by a bogus explanation. Either
kind of thinking is sterile and sterilizing. Its negative qual-
ity is due to the fact that it is so indescribably cheap, im-
poverished, and lacking in creative energy. It is a thinking
taken in tow by other functions.
General Description of the Types : 207
Feeling
Feeling in the extraverted attitude is likewise oriented
by objective data, the object being the indispensable de-
terminant of the quality of feeling. The extravert's feeling
is always in harmony with objective values. For anyone
who has known feeling only as something subjective, the
nature of extraverted feeling will be difficult to grasp, be-
cause it has detached itself as much as possible from the
subjective factor and subordinated itself entirely to the
influence of the object. Even when it appears not to be
qualified by a concrete object, it is none the less still under
the spell of traditional or generally accepted values of
some kind. I may feel moved, for instance, to say that
something is "beautiful" or "good," not because I find it
"beautiful" or "good" from my own subjective feeling
about it, but because it is fitting and politic to call it so,
since a contrary judgment would upset the general feeling
situation. A feeling judgment of this kind is not by any
means a pretence or a lie, it is simply an act of adjust-
ment. A painting, for instance, is called "beautiful" be-
cause a painting hung in a drawing room and bearing a
well-known signature is generally assumed to be beautiful,
or because to call it "hideous" would presumably offend
the family of its fortunate possessor, or because the visitor
wants to create a pleasant feeling atmosphere, for which
purpose everything must be felt as agreeable. These feel-
ings are governed by an objective criterion. As such they
are genuine, and represent the feeling function as a whole.
In precisely the same way as extraverted thinking strives
to rid itself of subjective influences, extraverted feeling
has to undergo a process of differentiation before it is
finally denuded of every subjective trimming. The valua-
tions resulting from the act of feeling either correspond
directly with objective values or accord with traditional and
generally accepted standards. This kind of feeling is very
2o8 : Psychological Types
largely responsible for the fact that so many people flock
to the theatre or to concerts, or go to church, and do so
moreover with their feelings correctly adjusted. Fashions,
too, owe their whole existence to it, and, what is far more
valuable, the positive support of social, philanthropic, and
other such cultural institutions. In these matters extraverted
feeling proves itself a creative factor. Without it, a har-
monious social life would be impossible. To that extent
extraverted feeling is just as beneficial and sweetly reason-
able in its effects as extraverted thinking. But these salutary
effects are lost as soon as the object gains ascendency. The
force of extraverted feeling then pulls the personality into
the object, the object assimilates him, whereupon the per-
sonal quality of the feeling, which constitutes its chief
charm, disappears. It becomes cold, "unfeeling," untrust-
worthy. It has ulterior motives, or at least makes an im-
partial observer suspect them. It no longer makes that
agreeable and refreshing impression which invariably ac-
companies genuine feeling; instead, one suspects a pose, or
that the person is acting, even though he may be quite
unconscious of any egocentric motives. Overextraverted
feeling may satisfy aesthetic expectations, but it does not
speak to the heart; it appeals merely to the senses or —
worse still — only to reason. It can provide the aesthetic
padding for a situation, but there it stops, and beyond that
its effect is nil. It has become sterile. If this process goes
any further, a curiously contradictory dissociation of feel-
ing results: everything becomes an object of feeling valua-
tions, and innumerable relationships are entered into which
are all at variance with each other. As this situation would
become quite impossible if the subject received anything
like due emphasis, even the last vestiges of a real personal
standpoint are suppressed. The subject becomes so en-
meshed in the network of individual feelings processes
that to the observer it seems as though there were merely
a feeling process and no longer a subject of feeling. Feel-
ing in this state has lost all human warmth; it gives the
General Description of the Types : 209
impression of being put on, fickle, unreliable, and in the
worst cases hysterical.
The Exlraverted Feeling Type
As feeling is undeniably a more obvious characteristic
of feminine psychology than thinking, the most pronounced
feeling types are to be found among women. When ex-
traverted feeling predominates we speak of an extraverted
feeling type. Examples of this type that I can call to mind
are, almost without exception, women. The woman of this
type follows her feeling as a guide throughout life. As a
result of upbringing her feeling has developed into -an ad-
justed function subject to conscious control. Except in
extreme cases, her feeling has a personal quality, even
though she may have repressed the subjective factor to a
large extent. Her personality appears adjusted in relation
to external conditions. Her feelings harmonize with ob-
jective situations and general values. This is seen nowhere
more clearly than in her love choice: the "suitable" man
is loved, and no one else; he is suitable not because he
appeals to her hidden subjective nature — about which she
usually knows nothing — but because he comes up to all
reasonable expectations in the matter of age, position, in-
come, size and respectability of his family, etc. One could
easily reject such a picture as ironical or cynical, but I am
fully convinced that the love feeling of this type of woman
is in perfect accord with her choice. It is genuine and not
just shrewd. There are countless "reasonable" marriages of
this kind and they are by no means the worst. These
women are good companions and excellent mothers so
long as the husbands and children are blessed with the
conventional psychic constitution.
But one can feel "correctly" only when feeling is not
disturbed by anything else. Nothing disturbs feeling so
much as thinking. It is therefore understandable that in
210 : Psychological Types
this type thinking will be kept in abeyance as much as
possible. This does not mean that the woman does not
think at all; on the contrary, she may think a great deal
and very cleverly, but her thinking is never sui generis —
it is an Epimethean appendage to her feeling. What she
cannot feel, she cannot consciously think. "But I can't
think what I don't feel," such a type said to me once in
indignant tones. So far as her feeling allows, she can think
very well, but every conclusion, however logical, that might
lead to a disturbance of feeling is rejected at the outset. It
is simply not thought. Thus everything that fits in with
objective values is good, and is loved, and everything else
seems to her to exist in a world apart.
But a change comes over the picture when the im-
portance of the object reaches a still higher level. As al-
ready explained, the subject then becomes so assimilated
to the object that the subject of feeling is completely en-
gulfed. Feeling loses its personal quality, and becomes feel-
ing for its own sake; the personality seems wholly dis-
solved in the feeling of the moment. But since actual life
is a constant succession of situations that evoke different
and even contradictory feelings, the personality gets split
up into as many different feeling states. At one moment
one is this, at another something quite different — to all
appearances, for in reality such a multiple personality is
impossible. The basis of the ego always remains the same
and consequently finds itself at odds with the changing
feeling states. To the observer, therefore, the display of
feeling no longer appears as a personal expression of the
subject but as an alteration of the ego — a mood, in other
words. Depending on the degree of dissociation between
the ego and the momentary state of feeling, signs of self-
disunity will become clearly apparent, because the orig-
inally compensatory attitude of the unconscious has turned
into open opposition. This shows itself first of all in ex-
travagant displays of feeling, gushing talk, loud expostula-
tions, etc., which ring hollow: "The lady doth protest too
General Description of the Types : 211
much." It is at once apparent that some kind of resistance
is being overcompensated, and one begins to wonder
whether these demonstrations might not turn out quite
different. And a little later they do. Only a very slight al-
teration in the situation is needed to call forth at once
just the opposite pronouncement on the selfsame object.
As a result of these experiences the observer is unable to
take either pronouncement seriously. He begins to reserve
judgment. But since, for this type, it is of the highest im-
portance to establish an intense feeling of rapport with
the environment, redoubled efforts are now required to
overcome this reserve. Thus, in the manner of a vicious
circle, the situation goes from bad to worse. The stronger
the feeling relation to the object, the more the unconscious
opposition comes to the surface.
We have already seen that the extraverted feeling type
suppresses thinking most of all because this is the function
most liable to disturb feeling. For the same reason, think-
ing totally shuts out feeling if ever it wants to reach any
kind of pure results, for nothing is more liable to prejudice
and falsify thinking than feeling values. But, as I have said,
though the thinking of the extraverted feeling type is re-
pressed as an independent function, the repression is not
complete; it is repressed only so far as its inexorable logic
drives it to conclusions that are incompatible with feeling.
It is suffered to exist as a servant of feeling, or rather as
its slave. Its backbone is broken; it may not operate on
its own account, in accordance with its own laws. But since
logic nevertheless exists and enforces its inexorable con-
clusions, this must take place somewhere, and it takes place
outside consciousness, namely in the unconscious. Accord-
ingly the unconscious o( this type contains first and fore-
most a peculiar kind of thinking, a thinking that is in-
fantile, archaic, negative. So long as the conscious feeling
preserves its personal quality, or, to put it another way,
so long as the personality is not swallowed up in successive
states of feeling, this unconscious thinking remains com-
212 : Psychological Types
pensatory. But as soon as the personality is dissociated
and dissolves into a succession of contradictory feeling
states, the identity of the ego is lost and the subject lapses
into the unconscious. When this happens, it gets associated
with the unconscious thinking processes and occasionally
helps them to the surface. The stronger the conscious feel-
ing is and the more ego-less it becomes, the stronger grows
the unconscious opposition. The unconscious thoughts
gravitate round just the most valued objects and mercilessly
strip them of their value. The "nothing but" type of think-
ing comes into its own here, since it effectively depoten-
tiates all feelings that are bound to the object. The un-
conscious thinking reaches the surface in the form of
obsessive ideas which are invariably of a negative and de-
preciatory character. Women of this type have moments
when the most hideous thoughts fasten on the very objects
most valued by their feelings. This negative thinking uti-
lizes every infantile prejudice or comparison for the de-
liberate purpose of casting aspersions on the feeling value,
and musters every primitive instinct in the attempt to
come out with "nothing but" interpretations. It need
hardly be remarked that this procedure also mobilizes
the collective unconscious and activates its store of pri-
mordial images, thus bringing with it the possibility of a
regeneration of attitude on a different basis. Hysteria, with
the characteristic infantile sexuality of its unconscious
world of ideas, is the principal form of neurosis in this
type.
Summary of the Extraverted Rational Types
I call the two preceding types rational or judging types
because they are characterized by the supremacy of the
reasoning and judging functions. It is a general distinguish-
ing mark of both types that their life is, to a great extent,
subordinated to rational judgment. But we have to con-
General Description of the Types : 213
sider whether by "rational" we are speaking from the
standpoint of the individual's subjective psychology or
from that of the observer, who perceives and judges from
without. This observer could easily arrive at a contrary
judgment, especially if he intuitively apprehended merely
the outward behaviour of the person observed and judged
accordingly. On the whole, the life of this type is never
dependent on rational judgment alone; it is influenced in
almost equal degree by unconscious irrationality. If ob-
servation is restricted to outward behaviour, without any
concern for the internal economy of the individual's con-
sciousness, one may get an even stronger impression of
the irrational and fortuitous nature of certain unconscious
manifestations than of the reasonableness of his conscious
intentions and motivations. I therefore base my judgment
on what the individual feels to be his conscious psychology.
But I am willing to grant that one could equally well con-
ceive and present such a psychology from precisely the
opposite angle. I am also convinced that, had I myself
chanced to possess a different psychology, I would have
described the rational types in the reverse way, from the
standpoint of the unconscious — as irrational, therefore.
This aggravates the difficulty of a lucid presentation of
psychological matters and immeasurably increases the pos-
sibility of misunderstandings. The arguments provoked by
these misunderstandings are, as a rule, quite hopeless be-
cause each side is speaking at cross purposes. This ex-
perience is one reason the more for basing my presentation
on the conscious psychology of the individual, since there
at least we have a definite objective footing, which com-
pletely drops away the moment we try to base our psy-
chological rationale on the unconscious. For in that case
the observed object would have no voice in the matter at
all, because there is nothing about which he is more un-
informed than his own unconscious. The judgment is then
left entirely to the subjective observer — a sure guarantee
that it will be based on his own individual psychology,
214 •• Psychological Types
which would be forcibly imposed on the observed. To my
mind, this is the case with the psychologies of both Freud
and Adler, The individual is completely at the mercy of
the judging observer, which can never be the case when
the conscious psychology of the observed is accepted as a
basis. He after all is the only competent judge, since he
alone knows his conscious motives.
The rationality that characterizes the conscious conduct
of life in both these types involves a deliberate exclusion
of everything irrational and accidental. Rational judgment,
in such a psychology, is a force that coerces the untidiness
and fortuitousness of life into a definite pattern, or at least
tries to do so. A definite choice is made from among all
the possibilities it offers, only the rational ones being ac-
cepted; but on the other hand the independence and in-
fluence of the psychic functions which aid the perception
of life's happenings are consequently restricted. Naturally
this restriction of sensation and intuition is not absolute.
These functions exist as before, but their products are sub-
ject to the choice made by rational judgment. It is not the
intensity of a sensation as such that decides action, for in-
stance, but judgment. Thus, in a sense, the functions of
perception share the same fate as feeling in the case of
the first type, or thinking in that of the second. They are
relatively repressed, and therefore in an inferior state of
differentiation. This gives a peculiar stamp to the uncon-
scious of both our types: what they consciously and in-
tentionally do accords with reason (their reason, of
course), but what happens to them accords with the na-
ture of infantile, primitive sensations and intuitions. At
ail events, what happens to these types is irrational (from
their standpoint). But since there are vast numbers of
people whose lives consist more of what happens to them
than of actions governed by rational intentions, such a
person, after observing them closely, might easily describe
both our types as irrational. And one has to admit that
only too often a man's unconscious makes a far stronger
General Description of the Types : 215
impression on an observer than his consciousness does,
and that his actions are of considerably more importance
than his rational intentions.
The rationality of both types is object-oriented and
dependent on objective data. It accords with what is
collectively considered to be rational. For them, noth-
ing is rational save what is generally considered as
such. Reason, however, is in large part subjective and
individual. In our types this part is repressed, and increas-
ingly so as the object gains in importance. Both the sub-
ject and his subjective reason, therefore, are in constant
danger of repression, and when they succumb to it they
fall under the tyranny of the unconscious, which in this
case possesses very unpleasant qualities. Of its peculiar
thinking we have already spoken. But, besides that, there
are primitive sensations that express themselves compul-
sively, for instance in the form of compulsive pleasure-
seeking in every conceivable form; there are also primitive
intuitions that can become a positive torture to the person
concerned and to everybody in his vicinity. Everything that
is unpleasant and painful, everything that is disgusting,
hateful, and evil, is sniffed out or suspected, and in most
cases it is a half-truth calculated to provoke misunder-
standings of the most poisonous kind. The antagonistic
unconscious elements are so strong that they frequently
disrupt the conscious rule of reason; the individual be-
comes the victim of chance happenings, which exercise
a compulsive influence over him either because they pander
to his sensations or because he intuits their unconscious
significance.
Sensation
Sensation, in the cxtraverted attitude, is pre-eminently
conditioned by the object. As sense perception, sensation
is naturally dependent on objects. But, just as naturally, it
216 : Psychological Types
is also dependent on the subject, for which reason there
is subjective sensation of a kind entirely different from
objective sensation. In the extraverted attitude the sub-
jective component of sensation, so far as its conscious
application is concerned, is either inhibited or repressed.
Similarly, as an irrational function, sensation is largely re-
pressed when thinking or feeling holds prior place; that is
to say, it is a conscious function only to the extent that the
rational attitude of consciousness permits accidental per-
ceptions to become conscious contents — in a word, regis-
ters them. The sensory function is, of course, absolute in
the stricter sense; everything is seen or heard, for instance,
to the physiological limit, but not everything attains the
threshold value a perception must have in order to be
apperceived. It is different when sensation itself is para-
mount instead of merely seconding another function. In
this case no element of objective sensation is excluded and
nothing is repressed (except the subjective component al-
ready mentioned).
As sensation is chiefly conditioned by the object, those
objects that excite the strongest sensations will be decisive
for the individual's psychology. The result is a strong
sensuous tie to the object. Sensation is therefore a vital
function equipped with the strongest vital instinct. Ob-
jects are valued in so far as they excite sensations, and, so
far as lies within the power of sensation, they are fully
accepted into consciousness whether they are compatible
with rational judgments or not. The sole criterion of their
value is the intensity of the sensation produced by their
objective qualities. Accordingly, all objective processes
which excite any sensations at all make their appearance
in consciousness. However, it is only concrete, sensuously
perceived objects or processes that excite sensations; those,
exclusively, which everyone everywhere would sense as con-
crete. Hence the orientation of such an individual accords
with purely sensuous reality. The judging, rational functions
are subordinated to the concrete facts of sensation, and
General Description of the Types : 217
thus have all the qualities of the less differentiated func-
tions, exhibiting negative, infantile, and archaic traits. The
function most repressed is naturally the opposite of sensa-
tion — intuition, the function of unconscious perception.
The Extraverted Sensation Type
No other human type can equal the extraverted sensa-
tion type m realism. His sense for objective facts is ex-
traordinarily developed. His life is an accumulation of
actual experiences of concrete objects, and the more pro-
nounced his type, the less use does he make of his experi-
ence. In certain cases the events of his life hardly deserve
the name "experience" at all. What he experiences serves at
most as a guide to fresh sensations; anything new that
comes within his range of interest is acquired by way of
sensation and has to serve its ends. Since one is inclined
to regard a highly developed reality-sense as a sign of
rationality, such people will be esteemed as very rational.
But in actual fact this is not the case, since they are just as
much at the mercy of their sensations in the face of irra-
tional, chance happenings as they are in the face of ra-
tional ones. This type — the majority appear to be men —
naturally does not think he is at the "mercy" of sensation.
He would ridicule this view as quite beside the point, be-
cause- sensation for him is a concrete expression of life —
it is simply real life lived to the full. His whole aim is
concrete enjoyment, and his morality is oriented accord-
ingly. Indeed, true enjoyment has its own special morality,
its own moderation and lawfulness, its own unselfishness
and willfngncss to make sacrifices. It by no means follows
that he is just sensual or gross, for he may differentiate
his sensation to the finest pitch of aesthetic purity with-
out ever deviating from his principle of concrete sensation
however abstract his sensations may be. Wulfcn's Dcr
Gcnussinensch: ein Cicerone im riicksichtslosen Lebens-
218 : Psychological Types
genuss C) is the unvarnished confession of a type of this
sort, and the book seems to me worth reading on that
account alone.
On the lower levels, this type is the lover of tangible
reality, with little inclination for reflection and no desire
to dominate. To feel the object, to have sensations and if
possible enjoy them — that is his constant aim. He is by no
means unlovable; on the contrary, his lively capacity for
enjoyment makes him very good company; he is usually a
jolly fellow, and sometimes a refined aesthete. In the for-
mer case the great problems of life hang on a good or
indifferent dinner; in the latter, it's all a question of good
taste. Once an object has given him a sensation, nothing
more remains to be said or done about it. It cannot be
anything except concrete and real; conjectures that go
beyond the concrete are admitted only on condition that
they enhance sensation. The intensification does not neces-
sarily have to be pleasurable, for this type need not be
a common voluptuary; he is merely desirous of the strong-
est sensations, and these, by his very nature, he can re-
ceive only from outside. What comes from inside seems to
him morbid and suspect. He always reduces his thoughts
and feelings to objective causes, to influences emanating
from objects, quite unperturbed by the most glaring viola-
tions of logic. Once he can get back to tangible reality in
any form he can breathe again. In this respect he is sur-
prisingly credulous. He will unhesitatingly connect a psy-
chogenic symptom with a drop in the barometer, while on
the other hand the existence of a psychic conflict seems
to him morbid imagination. His love is unquestionably
rooted in the physical attractions of its object. If normal,
he is conspicuously well adjusted to reality. That is his
ideal, and it even makes him considerate of others. As
he has no ideals connected with ideas, he has no reason
to act in any way contrary to the reality of things as they
are. This manifests itself in all the externals of his life. He
6 "The Sybarite: A Guide to the Ruthless Enjoyment of Life."
General Description of the Types : 219
dresses well, as befits the occasion; he keeps a good table
with plenty of drink for his friends, making them feel
very grand, or at least giving them to understand that his
refined taste entitles him to make a few demands of them.
He may even convince them that certain sacrifices are de-
cidedly worth while for the sake of style.
The more sensation predominates, however, so that the
subject disappears behind the sensation, the less agreeable
does this type become. He develops into a crude pleasure-
seeker, or else degenerates into an unscrupulous, effete
aesthete. Although the object has become quite indispensa-
ble to him, yet, as something existing in its own right, it
is none the less devalued. It is ruthlessly exploited and
squeezed dry, since now its sole use is to stimulate sensa-
tion. The bondage to the object is carried to the extreme
limit. In consequence, the unconscious is forced out of its
compensatory role into open opposition. Above all, the
repressed intuitions begin to assert themselves in the form
of projections. The wildest suspicions arise; if the object
is a sexual one, jealous fantasies and anxiety states gain
the upper hand. More acute cases develop every sort of
phobia, and, in particular, compulsion symptoms. The
pathological contents have a markedly unreal character,
with a frequent moral or religious streak. A pettifogging
captiousness follows, or a grotesquely punctilious morality
combined with primitive, "magical" superstitions that fall
back on abstruse rites. All these things have their source in
the repressed inferior functions which have been driven
into harsh opposition to the conscious attitude, and they
appear in a guise that is all the more striking because they
rest on the most absurd assumptions, in complete contrast
to the conscious sense of reality. The whole structure of
thought and feeling seems, in this second personality, to
be twisted into a pathological parody: reason turns into
hair-splitting pedantry, morality into dreary moralizing and
blatant Pharisaism, religion into ridiculous superstition, and
intuition, the noblest gift of man, into meddlesome of-
220 : Psychological Types
ficiousness, poking into every corner; instead of gazing
into the far distance, it descends to the lowest level of
human meanness.
The specifically compulsive character of the neurotic
symptoms is the unconscious counterpart of the easy-going
attitude of the pure sensation type, who, from the stand-
point of rational judgment, accepts indiscriminately every-
thing that happens. Although this does not by any means
imply an absolute lawlessness and lack of restraint, it
nevertheless deprives him of the essential restraining power
of judgment. But rational judgment is a conscious coercion
which the rational type appears to impose on himself of his
own free will. This coercion overtakes the sensation type
from the unconscious, in the form of compulsion. More-
over, the very existence of a judgment means that the ra-
tional type's relation to the object will never become an
absolute tie, as it is in the case of the sensation type. When
his attitude attains an abnormal degree of one-sidedness,
therefore, he is in danger of being overpowered by the
unconscious in the same measure as he is consciously in
the grip of the object. If he should become neurotic, it is
much harder to treat him by rational means because the
functions which the analyst must turn to are in a relatively
undifferentiated state, and little or no reliance can be
placed on them. Special techniques for bringing emotional
pressure to bear are often needed in order to make him
at all conscious.
Intuition
In the extraverted attitude, intuition as the function of
unconscious perception is wholly directed to external ob-
jects. Because intuition is in the main an unconscious proc-
ess, its nature is very difficult to grasp. The intuitive func-
tion is represented in consciousness by an attitude of ex-
pectancy, by vision and penetration; but only from the
subsequent result can it be established how much of what
General Description of the Types : 221
was "seen" was actually in the object, and how much was
"read into" it. Just as sensation, when it is the dominant
function, is not a mere reactive process of no further sig-
nificance for the object, but an activity that seizes and
shapes its object, so intuition is not mere perception, or
vision, but an active, creative process that puts into the
object just as much as it takes out. Since it does this un-
consciously, it also has an unconscious effect on the object.
The primary function of intuition, however, is simply to
transmit images, or perceptions of relations between things,
which could not be transmitted by the other functions or
only in a very roundabout way. These images have the
value of specific insights which have a. decisive influence on
action whenever intuition is given priority. In this case,
psychic adaptation will be grounded almost entirely on
intuitions. Thinking, feeling, and sensation are then largely
repressed, sensation being the one most affected, because,
as the conscious sense function, it offers the greatest ob-
stacle to intuition. Sensation is a hindrance to clear, un-
biassed, naive perception; its intrusive sensory stimuli
direct attention to the physical surface, to the very things
round and beyond which intuition tries to peer. But since
extraverted intuition is directed predominantly to objects,
it actually comes very close to sensation; indeed, the ex-
pectant attitude to external objects is just as likely to make
use of sensation. Hence, if intuition is to function properly,
sensation must to a large extent be suppressed. By sensa-
tion I mean in this instance the simple and immediate
sense-impression understood as a clearly defined physiolog-
ical and psychic datum. This must be expressly established
beforehand because, if I ask an intuitive how he orients
himself, he will speak of things that are almost indistin-
guishable from sense-impressions. Very often he will even
use the word "sensation/ 1 He does have sensations, of
course, but he is not guided by them as such; he uses them
merely as starting-points for his perceptions. He selects
them by unconscious predilection. It is not the strongest
sensation, in the physiological sense, that is accorded the
222 : Psychological Types
chief value, but any sensation whatsoever whose value is
enhanced by the intuitive's unconscious attitude. In this
way it may eventually come to acquire the chief value, and
to his conscious mind it appears to be pure sensation. But
actually it is not so.
Just as extraverted sensation strives to reach the highest
pitch of actuality, because this alone can give the appear-
ance of a full life, so intuition tries to apprehend the
widest range of possibilities, since only through envisioning
possibilities is intuition fully satisfied. It seeks to discover
what possibilities the objective situation holds in store;
hence, as a subordinate function (i.e., when not in the
position of priority), it is the auxiliary that automatically
comes into play when no other function can find a way
out of a hopelessly blocked situation. When it is the domi-
nant function, every ordinary situation in life seems like
a locked room which intuition has to open. It is constantly
seeking fresh outlets and new possibilities in external life.
In a very short time every existing situation becomes a
prison for the intuitive, a chain that has to be broken. For
a time objects appear to have an exaggerated value, if
they should serve to bring about a solution, a deliverance,
or lead to the discovery of a new possibility. Yet no
sooner have they served their purpose as stepping-stones or
bridges than they lose their value altogether and are dis-
carded as burdensome appendages. Facts are acknowledged
only if they open new possibilities of advancing beyond
them and delivering the individual from their power. Nas-
cent possibilities are compelling motives from which in-
tuition cannot escape and to which all else must be sac-
rificed.
The Extraverted Intuitive Type
Whenever intuition predominates, a peculiar and un-
mistakable psychology results. Because extraverted intui-
General Description of the Types : 223
tion is oriented by the object, there is a marked dependence
on external situations, but it is altogether different from
the dependence of the sensation type. The intuitive is
never to be found in the world of accepted reality-values,
but he has a keen nose for anything new and in the mak-
ing. Because he is always seeking out new possibilities,
stable conditions suffocate him. He seizes on new objects
or situations with great intensity, sometimes with ex-
traordinary enthusiasm, only to abandon them cold-blood-
edly, without any compunction and apparently without re-
membering them, as soon as their range is known and no
further developments can be divined. So long as a new
possibility is in the offing, the intuitive is bound to it with
the shackles of fate. It is as though his whole life vanished
in the new situation. One gets the impression, which he
himself shares, that he has always just reached a final turn-
ing-point, and that from now on he can think and feel
nothing else. No matter how reasonable and suitable it may
be, and although every conceivable argument speaks for
its stability, a day will come when nothing will deter him
from regarding as a prison the very situation that seemed
to promise him freedom and deliverance, and from acting
accordingly. Neither reason nor feeling can restrain him
or frighten him away from a new possibility, even though
it goes against all his previous convictions. Thinking and
feeling, the indispensable components of conviction, are
his inferior functions, carrying no weight and hence in-
capable of effectively withstanding the power of intuition.
And yet these functions are the only ones that could com-
pensate its supremacy by supplying the judgment which
the intuitive type totally lacks. The intuitive's morality is
governed neither by thinking nor by feeling; he has his
own characteristic morality, which consists in a loyalty to
his vision and in voluntary submission to its authority.
Consideration for the welfare of others is weak. Their
psychic well-being counts as little with him as does his
own. He has equally little regard for their convictions and
224 •' Psychological Types
way of life, and on this account he is often put down as
an immoral and unscrupulous adventurer. Since his in-
tuition is concerned with externals and with ferreting out
their possibilities, he readily turns to professions in which
he can exploit these capacities to the full. Many business
tycoons, entrepreneurs, speculators, stockbrokers, politi-
cians, etc., belong to this type. It would seem to be more
common among women, however, than among men. In
women the intuitive capacity shows itself not so much in
the professional as in the social sphere. Such women under-
stand the art of exploiting every social occasion, they make
.the right social connections, they seek out men with pros-
pects only to abandon everything again for the sake of a
new possibility.
It goes without saying that such a type is uncommonly
important both economically and culturally. If his inten-
tions are good, i.e., if his attitude is not too egocentric,
he can render exceptional service as the initiator or pro-
moter of new enterprises. He is the natural champion of
all minorities with a future. Because he is able, when
oriented more to people than things, to make an intuitive
diagnosis of their abilities and potentialities, he can also
"make" men. His capacity to inspire courage or to kindle
enthusiasm for anything new is unrivalled, although he
may already have dropped it by the morrow. The stronger
his intuition, the more his ego becomes fused with all the
possibilities he envisions. He brings his vision to life, he
presents it convincingly and with dramatic fire, he em-
bodies it, so to speak. But this is not play-acting, it is a
kind of fate.
Naturally this attitude holds great dangers, for all too
easily the intuitive may fritter away his life on things and
people, spreading about him an abundance of life which
others live and not he himself. If only he could stay put, he
would reap the fruits of his labours; but always he must
be running after a new possibility, quitting his newly
planted fields while others gather in the harvest. In the
General Description of the Types : 225
end he goes away empty. But when the intuitive lets things
come to such a pass, he also has his own unconscious
against him. The unconscious of the intuitive bears some
resemblance to that of the sensation type. Thinking and
feeling, being largely repressed, come up with infantile,
archaic thoughts and feelings similar to those of the coun-
tertype. They take the form of intense projections which
are just as absurd as his, though they seem to lack the
"magical" character of the latter and are chiefly concerned
with quasi-realities such as sexual suspicions, financial
hazards, forebodings of illness, etc. The difference seems
to be due to the repression of real sensations. These make
themselves felt when, for instance, the intuitive suddenly
finds himself entangled with a highly unsuitable woman —
or, in the case of a woman, with an unsuitable man —
because these persons have stirred up the archaic sensations.
This leads to an unconscious, compulsive tie which bodes
nobody any good. Cases of this kind are themselves symp-
tomatic of compulsion, to which the intuitive is as prone
as the sensation type. He claims a similar freedom and
exemption from restraint, submitting his decisions to no
rational judgment and relying entirely on his nose for the
possibilities that chance throws in his way. He exempts
himself from the restrictions of reason only to fall victim
to neurotic compulsions in the form of over-subtle rati-
ocinations, hair-splitting dialectics, and a compulsive tie to
the sensation aroused by the object. His conscious attitude
towards both sensation and object is one of ruthless superi-
ority. Not that he means to be ruthless or superior — he
simply does not see the object that everyone else sees and
rides roughshod over it, just as the sensation type has no
eyes for its soul. But sooner or later the object takes
revenge in the form of compulsive hypochondriacal ideas,
phobias, and every imaginable kind of absurd bodily sensa-
tion.
226 : Psychological Types
Summary of the Extraverted Irrational Types
I call the two preceding types irrational for the reasons
previously discussed, namely that whatever they do or do
not do is based not on rational judgment but on the sheer
intensity of perception. Their perception is directed simply
and solely to events as they happen, no selection being made
by judgment. In this respect they have a decided advantage
over the two judging types. Objective events both conform
to law and are accidental. In so far as they conform to law,
they are accessible to reason; in so far as they are acci-
dental, they are not. Conversely, we might also say that an
event conforms to law when it presents an aspect accessible
to reason, and that when it presents an aspect for which
we can find no law we call it accidental. The postulate of
universal lawfulness is a postulate of reason alone, but in
no sense is it a postulate of our perceptive functions. Since
these are in no way based on the principle of reason and
its postulates, they are by their very nature irrational. That
is why I call the perception types "irrational" by nature.
But merely because they subordinate judgment to percep-
tion, it would be quite wrong to regard them as "unreason-
able." It would be truer to say that they are in the highest
degree empirical. They base themselves exclusively on ex-
perience — so exclusively that, as a rule, their judgment
cannot keep pace with their experience. But the judging
functions are none the less present, although they eke out
a largely unconscious existence. Since the unconscious, in
spite of its separation from the conscious subject, is always
appearing on the scene, we notice in the actual life of the
irrational types striking judgments and acts of choice, but
they take the form of apparent sophistries, cold-hearted
criticisms, and a seemingly calculating selection of persons
and situations. These traits have a rather infantile and even
primitive character; both types can on occasion be aston-
ishingly naive, as well as ruthless, brusque, and violent.
General Description of the Types : 227
To the rational types the real character of these people
might well appear rationalistic and calculating in the worst
sense. But this judgment would be valid only for their
unconscious, and therefore quite incorrect for their con-
scious psychology, which is entirely oriented by perception,
and because of its irrational nature is quite unintelligible
to any rational judgment. To the rational mind it might
even seem that such a hodge-podge of accidentals hardly
deserves the name "psychology" at all. The irrational
type ripostes with an equally contemptuous opinion of his
opposite number: he sees him as something only half
alive, whose sole aim is to fasten the fetters of reason on
everything living and strangle it with judgments. These
are crass extremes, but they nevertheless occur.
From the standpoint of the rational type, the other might
easily be represented as an inferior kind of rationalist —
when, that is to say, he is judged by what happens to him.
For what happens to him is not accidental — here he is the
master — instead, the accidents that befall him take the
form of rational judgments and rational intentions, and
these are the things he stumbles over. To the rational mind
this is something almost unthinkable, but its unthinkable-
ness merely equals the astonishment of the irrational type
when he comes up against someone who puts rational ideas
above actual and living happenings. Such a thing seems
to him scarcely credible. As a rule it is quite hopeless to
discuss these things with him as questions of principle, for
all rational communication is just as alien and repellent
to him as it would be unthinkable for the rationalist to
enter into a contract without mutual consultation and ob-
ligation.
This brings me to the problem of the psychic relation-
ship between the two types. Following the terminology of
the French school of hypnotists, psychic relationship is
known in modern psychiatry as "rapport." Rapport con-
sists essentially in a feeling of agreement in spite of
acknowledged differences. Indeed, the recognition of exist-
228 : Psychological Types
ing differences, if it be mutual, is itself a rapport, a feeling
of agreement. If in a given case we make this feeling con-
scious to a higher degree than usual, we discover that it
is not just a feeling whose nature cannot be analyzed fur-
ther, but at the same time an insight or a content of cogni-
tion which presents the point of agreement in conceptual
form. This rational presentation is valid only for the ra-
tional types, but not for the irrational, whose rapport is
based not on judgment but on the parallelism of living
events. His feeling of agreement comes from the common
perception of a sensation or intuition. The rational type
would say that rapport with the irrational depends purely
on chance. If, by some accident, the objective situations are
exactly in tune, something like a human relationship takes
place, but nobody can tell how valid it is or how long it
will last. To the rational type it is often a painful thought
that the relationship will last just as long as external cir-
cumstances and chance provide a common interest. This
does not seem to him particularly human, whereas it is
precisely in this that the irrational type sees a human
situation of particular beauty. The result is that each regards
the other as a man destitute of relationships, who cannot
be relied upon, and with whom one can never get on decent
terms. This unhappy outcome, however, is reached only
when one makes a conscious effort to assess the nature of
one's relationships with others. But since this kind of psy-
chological conscientiousness is not very common, it fre-
quently happens that despite an absolute difference of
standpoint a rapport nevertheless comes about, and in the
following way: one party, by unspoken projection, assumes
that the other is, in all essentials, of the same opinion as
himself, while the other divines or senses an objective com-
munity of interest, of which, however, the former has no
conscious inkling and whose existence he would at once
dispute, just as it would never occur to the other that his
relationship should be based on a common point of view.
A rapport of this kind is by far the most frequent; it rests
General Description of the Types : 229
on mutual projection, which later becomes the source of
many misunderstandings.
Psychic relationship, in the extraverted attitude, is always
governed by objective factors and external determinants.
What a man is within himself is never of any decisive
significance. For our present-day culture the extraverted
attitude to the problem of human relationships is the prin-
ciple that counts; naturally the introverted principle occurs
too, but it is still the exception and has to appeal to the
tolerance of the age.
3. The Introverted Type
a) The General Attitude of Consciousness
As I have already explained in the previous section, the
introvert is distinguished from- the extravert by the fact
that he does not, like the latter, orient himself by the
object and by objective data, but by subjective factors. 1
also mentioned 7 that the introvert interposes a subjective
view between the perception of the object and his own
action, which prevents the action from assuming a character
that fits the objective situation. Naturally this is a special
instance, mentioned by way of example and intended to
serve only as a simple illustration. We must now attempt
a formulation on a broader basis.
Although the introverted consciousness is naturally aware
of external conditions, it selects the subjective determinants
as the decisive ones. It is therefore oriented by the factor
in perception and cognition which responds to the sense
stimulus in accordance with the individual's subjective dis-
position. For example, two people see the same object, but
they never sec it in such a way that the images they receive
are absolutely identical. Quite apart from the variable acute-
7 Supra, p. 182.
230 : Psychological Types
ness of the sense organs and the personal equation, there
often exists a radical difference, both in kind and in degree,
in the psychic assimilation of the perceptual image. Whereas
the extravert continually appeals to what comes to Jiim
from the object, the introvert relies principally on what
the sense impression constellates in the subject. The differ-
ence in the case of a single apperception may, of course,
be very delicate, but in the total psychic economy it makes
itself felt in the highest degree, particularly in the effect
in has on the ego. If I may anticipate, I consider the view-
point which inclines, with Weininger, to describe the intro-
verted attitude as philautic, autoerotic, egocentric, sub-
jectivistic, egotistic, etc., to be misleading in principle and
thoroughly depreciatory. It reflects the normal bias of the
extraverted attitude in regard to the nature of the introvert.
We must not forget — although the extravert is only too
prone to do so — that perception and cognition are not
purely objective, but are also subjectively conditioned. The
world exists not merely in itself, but also as it appears to me.
Indeed, at bottom, we have absolutely no criterion that
could help us to form a judgment of a world which was
unassimilable by the subject. If we were to ignore the
subjective factor, it would be a complete denial of the
great doubt as to the possibility of absolute cognition. And
this would mean a relapse into the stale and hollow positiv-
ism that marred the turn of the century — an attitude of in-
tellectual arrogance accompanied by crudeness of feeling,
a violation of life as stupid as it is presumptuous. By over-
valuing our capacity for objective cognition we repress the
importance of the subjective factor, which simply means
a denial of the subject. But what is the subject? The subject
is man himself — we are the subject. Only a sick mind could
forget that cognition must have a subject, and that there
is no knowledge whatever and therefore no world at all
unless "I know" has been said, though with this statement
one has already expressed the subjective limitation of all
knowledge.
General Description of the Types : 231
This applies to all the psychic functions: they have a
subject which is just as indispensable as the object. It is
characteristic of our present extraverted sense of values
that the word "subjective" usually sounds like a reproof; at
all events the epithet "merely subjective" is brandished
like a weapon over the head of anyone who is not bound-
lessly convinced of the absolute superiority of the object.
We must therefore be quite clear as to what "subjective"
means in this inquiry. By the subjective factor I understand
that psychological action or reaction which merges with
the effect produced by the object and so gives rise to a
new psychic datum. In so far as the subjective factor has,
from the earliest times and among all peoples, remained in
large measure constant, elementary perceptions and cog-
nitions being almost universally the same, it is a reality that
is just as firmly established as the external object. If this
were not so, any sort of permanent and essentially un-
changing reality would be simply inconceivable, and any
understanding of the past would be impossible. In this
sense, therefore, the subjective factor is as ineluctable a
datum as the extent of the sea and the radius of the earth.
By the same token, the subjective factor has all the value
of a co-determinant of the world we live in, a factor that
can on no account be left out of our calculations. It is
another universal law, and whoever bases himself on it
has a foundation as secure, as permanent, and as valid as
the man who relies on the object. But just as the object and
objective data do not remain permanently the same, being
perishable and subject to chance, so too the subjective
factor is subject to variation and individual hazards. For
this reason its value is also merely relative. That is to say,
the excessive development of the introverted standpoint
does not lead to a better and sounder use of the subjective
factor, but rather to an artificial subjectivizing of conscious-
ness which can hardly escape the reproach "merely sub-
jective." This is then counterbalanced by a de-subjectiviza-
tion which takes the form of an exaggerated extraverted
2J2 : Psychological Types
attitude, an attitude aptly described by Weininger as
"misautic." But since the introverted attitude is based on
the ever-present, extremely real, and absolutely indispensa-
ble fact of psychic adaptation, expressions like "philautic,"
"egocentric," and so on are out of place and objectionable
because they arouse the prejudice that it is always a ques-
tion of the beloved ego. Nothing could be more mistaken
than such an assumption. Yet one is continually meeting
it in the judgments of the extravert on the introvert. Not,
of course, that I wish to ascribe this error to individual
extraverts; it is rather to be put down to the generally
accepted extraverted view which is by no means restricted
to the extraverted type, for it has just as many representa-
tives among introverts, very much to their own detriment.
The reproach of being untrue to their own nature can justly
be levelled at the latter, whereas this at least cannot be
held against the former.
The introverted attitude is normally oriented by the
psychic structure, which is in principle hereditary and is
inborn in the subject. This must not be assumed, however,
to be simply identical with the subject's ego, as is implied
by the above designations of Weininger; it is rather the
psychic structure of the subject prior to any ego-develop-
ment. The really fundamental subject, the self, is far more
comprehensive than the ego, since the former includes
the unconscious whereas the latter is essentially the focal
point of consciousness. Were the ego identical with the
self, it would be inconceivable how we could sometimes
see ourselves in dreams in quite different forms and with
entirely different meanings. But it is a characteristic pecu-
liarity of the introvert, which is as much in keeping with
his own inclination as with the general bias, to confuse
his ego with the self, and to exalt it as the subject of the
psychic process, thus bringing about the aforementioned
subjectivization of consciousness which alienates him from
the object.
The psychic structure is the same as what Semon calls
General Description of the Types : 233
"mneme" 8 and what I call the "collective unconscious."
The individual self is a portion or segment or representa-
tive of something present in all living creatures, an exponent
of the specific mode of psychological behaviour, which
varies from species to species and is inborn in each of its
members. The inborn mode of acting has long been known
as instinct, and for the inborn mode of psychic apprehen-
sion I have proposed the term archetype. 9 I may assume
that what is understood by instinct is familiar to everyone.
It is another matter with the archetype. What I understand
by it is identical with the "primordial image," a term bor-
rowed from Jacob Burckhardt, 10 and I describe it as such
in the Definitions that conclude this book. I must here
refer the reader to the definition "Image." 11
The archetype is a symbolic formula which always begins
to function when there are no conscious ideas present, or
when conscious ideas are inhibited for internal or external
reasons. The contents of the collective unconscious are
represented in consciousness in the form of pronounced
preferences and definite ways of looking at things. These
subjective tendencies and views are generally regarded by
the individual as being determined by the object — incor-
rectly, since they have their source in the unconscious
structure of the psyche and are merely released by the
effect of the object. They are stronger than the object's
influence, their psychic value is higher, so that they super-
impose themselves on all impressions. Thus, just as it seems
incomprehensible to the introvert that the object should
always be the decisive factor, it remains an enigma to the
extravert how a subjective standpoint can be superior to
8 Richard Scmon, Die Mneme als erhaltendes Prinzip im Wechsel
des organischen Geschehens (Leipzig, 1904); translated by L. Simon,
The Mneme (London, 1921).
11 "Instinct and the Unconscious," supra, pp. 47-58.
10 Cf. Symbols of Transformation {Collected Works, Vol. 5), par.
45. n. 45-
11 These references arc to the volume Psychological Types (Collected
Works, Vol. 6), Ch. xi.
234 ' Psychological Types
the objective situation. He inevitably comes to the con-
clusion that the introvert is either a conceited egoist or
crack-brained bigot. Today he would be suspected of har-
bouring an unconscious power complex. The introvert cer-
tainly lays himself open to these suspicions, for his positive,
highly generalizing manner of expression, which appears
to rule out every other opinion from the start, lends counte-
nance to all the extraverfs prejudices. Moreover the in-
flexibility of his subjective judgment, setting itself above all
objective data, is sufficient in itself to create the impression
of marked egocentricity. Faced with this prejudice the
introvert is usually at a loss for the right argument, for
he is quite unaware of the unconscious but generally quite
valid assumptions on which his subjective judgment and
his subjective perceptions are based. In the fashion of the
times he looks outside for an answer, instead of seeking
it behind his own consciousness. Should he become neu-
rotic, it is the sign of an almost complete identity of the
ego with the self; the importance of the self is reduced to
nil, while the ego is inflated beyond measure. The whole
world-creating force of the subjective factor becomes
concentrated in the ego, producing a boundless power-
complex and a fatuous egocentricity. Every psychology
which reduces the essence of man to the unconscious
power drive springs from this kind of disposition. Many
of Nietzsche's lapses in taste, for example, are due to this
subjectivization of consciousness.
b) The Attitude of the Unconscious
The predominance of the subjective factor in conscious-
ness naturally involves a devaluation of the object. The
object is not given the importance that belongs to it by
right. Just as it plays too great a role in the extraverted
attitude, it has too little meaning for the introvert. To the
extent that his consciousness is subjectivized and excessive
General Description of the Types : 235
importance attached to the ego, the object is put in a posi-
tion which in the end becomes untenable. The object is a
factor whose power cannot be denied, whereas the ego is
a very limited and fragile thing. It would be a very different
matter if the self opposed the object. Self and world are
commensurable factors; hence a normal introverted attitude
is as justifiable and valid as a normal cxtravertcd attitude.
But if the ego has usurped the claims of the subject, this
naturally produces, by way of compensation, an uncon-
scious reinforcement of the influence of the object. In spite
of positively convulsive efforts to ensure the superiority of
the ego, the object comes to exert an overwhelming influ-
ence, which is all the more invincible because it seizes on
the individual unawares and forcibly obtrudes itself on his
consciousness. As a result of the ego's unadapted relation
to the object — for a desire to dominate it is not adaptation
— a compensatory relation arises in the unconscious which
makes itself felt as an absolute and irrepressible tie to the
object. The more the ego struggles to preserve its inde-
pendence, freedom from obligation, and superiority, the
more it becomes enslaved to the objective data. The individ-
ual's freedom of mind is fettered by the ignominy of his
financial dependence, his freedom of action trembles in
the face of public opinion, his moral superiority collapses
in a morass of inferior relationships, and his desire to
dominate ends in a pitiful craving to be loved. It is now
the unconscious that takes care of the relation to the object,
and it does so in a way that is calculated to bring the
illusion of power and the fantasy of superiority to utter
ruin. The object assumes terrifying proportions in spite of
the conscious attempt to degrade it. In consequence, the
ego's efforts to detach itself from the object and get it
under control become all the more violent. In the end it
surrounds itself with a regular system of defences (aptly
described by Adler) for the purpose of preserving at least
the illusion of superiority. The introvert's alienation from
the object is now complete; he wears himself out with
2j6 ; Psychological Types
defence measures on the one hand, while on the other he
makes fruitless attempts to impose his will on the object
and assert himself. These efforts are constantly being frus-
trated by the overwhelming impressions received from
the object. It continually imposes itself on him against his
will, it arouses in him the most disagreeable and intractable
affects and persecutes him at every step. A tremendous
inner struggle is needed all the time in order to "keep
going." The typical form his neurosis takes is psychasthenia,
a malady characterized on the one hand by extreme sensi-
tivity and on the other by great proneness to exhaustion
and chronic fatigue.
An analysis of the personal unconscious reveals a mass
of power fantasies coupled with fear of objects which he
himself has forcibly activated, and of which he is often
enough the victim. His fear of objects develops into a
peculiar kind of cowardliness; he shrinks from making him-
self or his opinions felt, fearing that this will only increase
the object's power. He is terrified of strong affects in others,
and is hardly ever free from the dread of falling under
hostile influences. Objects possess puissant and terrifying
qualities for him — qualities he cannot consciously discern
in them, but which he imagines he sees through his uncon-
scious perception. As his relation to the object is very
largely repressed, it takes place via the unconscious, where
it becomes charged with the lattefs qualities. These qualities
are mostly infantile and archaic, so that the relation to the
object becomes primitive too, and the object seems endowed
with magical powers. Anything strange and new arouses
fear and mistrust, as though concealing unknown perils;
heirlooms and suchlike are attached to his soul as by
invisible threads; any change is upsetting, if not positively
dangerous, as it seems to denote a magical animation of
the object. His ideal is a lonely island where nothing moves
except what he permits to move. Vischer's novel, Auch
Eincv, affords deep insight into this side of the introvert's
psychology, and also into the underlying symbolism of the
General Description of the Types : 237
collective unconscious. But this latter question I must
leave to one side, since it is not specific to a description of
types but is a general phenomenon.
c) The Peculiarities of the Basic Psychological Functions
in the Introverted Attitude
Thinking
In the section on extraverted thinking I gave a brief
description of introverted thinking (supra, pp. 193-95)
and must refer to it again here. Introverted thinking is
primarily oriented by the subjective factor. At the very
least the subjective factor expresses itself as a feeling of
guidance which ultimately determines judgment. Sometimes
it appears as a more or less complete image which serves
as a criterion. But whether introverted thinking is con-
cerned with concrete or with abstract objects, always at
the decisive points it is oriented by subjective data. It does
not lead from concrete experience back again to the object,
but always to the subjective content. External facts are not
the aim and origin of this thinking, though the introvert
would often like to make his thinking appear so. It begins
with the subject and leads back to the subject, far though
it may range into the realm of actual reality. With regard to
the establishment of new facts it is only indirectly of value,
since new views rather than knowledge of new facts are
its main concern. It formulates questions and creates the-
ories, it opens up new prospects and insights, but with
regard to facts its attitude is one of reserve. They are all
very well as illustrative examples, but they must not be
allowed to predominate. Facts are collected as evidence for
a theory, never for their own sake. If ever this happens, it
is merely a concession to the extraverted style. Facts are
of secondary importance for this kind of thinking; what
seems to it of paramount importance is the development
2j8 : Psychological Types
and presentation of the subjective idea, of the initial sym-
bolic image hovering darkly before the mind's eye. Its aim
is never an intellectual reconstruction of the concrete fact,
but a shaping of that dark image into a luminous idea. It
wants to reach reality to see how the external fact will fit
into and fill the framework of the idea, and the creative
power of this thinking shows itself when it actually creates
an idea which, though not inherent in the concrete fact, is
yet the most suitable abstract expression of it. Its task is
completed when the idea it has fashioned seems to emerge
so inevitably from the external facts that they actually
prove its validity.
But no more than extraverted thinking can wrest a
sound empirical concept from concrete facts or create new
ones can introverted thinking translate the initial image into
an idea adequately adapted to the facts. For, as in the
former case the purely empirical accumulation of facts
paralyzes thought and smothers their meaning, so in the
latter case introverted thinking shows a dangerous tendency
to force the facts into the shape of its image, or to ignore
them altogether in order to give fantasy free play. In that
event it will be impossible for the finished product — the
idea — to repudiate its derivation from the dim archaic
image. It will have a mythological streak which one is apt
to interpret as "originality" or, in more pronounced cases,
as mere whimsicality, since its archaic character is not
immediately apparent to specialists unfamiliar with myth-
ological motifs. The subjective power of conviction ex-
erted by an idea of this kind is usually very great, and
it is all the greater the less it comes into contact with
external facts. Although it may seem to the originator of
the idea that his meagre store of facts is the actual source
of its truth and validity, in reality this is not so, for the
idea derives its convincing power from the unconscious
archetype, which, as such, is eternally valid and true. But
this truth is so universal and so symbolic that it must first
be assimilated to the recognized and recognizable knowl-
General Description of the Types : 239
edge of the time before it can become a practical truth
of any value for life. What would causality be, for instance,
if it could nowhere be recognized in practical causes and
practical effects?
This kind of thinking easily gets lost in the immense
truth of the subjective factor. It creates theories for their
own sake, apparently with an eye to real or at least possible
facts, but always with a distinct tendency to slip over from
the world of ideas into mere imagery. Accordingly, visions
of numerous possibilties appear on the scene, but none of
them ever becomes a reality until finally images are pro-
duced which no longer express anything externally real,
being mere symbols of the ineffable and unknowable. It is
now merely a mystical thinking and quite as unfruitful
as thinking that remains bound to objective data. Whereas
the latter sinks to the level of a mere representation of facts,
the former evaporates into a representation of the irrepre-
sentable, far beyond anything that could be expressed in an
image. The representation of facts has an incontestable
truth because the subjective factor is excluded and the facts
speak for themselves. Similarly, the representation of the
irrepresentable has an immediate, subjective power of con-
viction because it demonstrates its own existence. The one
says "Est, ergo est"; the other says "Cogito, ergo cogito."
Introverted thinking carried to extremes arrives at the evi-
dence of its own subjective existence, and extraverted think-
ing at the evidence of its complete identity with the objective
fact. Just as the latter abnegates itself by evaporating into
the object, the former empties itself of each and every
content and has to be satisfied with merely existing. In
both cases the further development of life is crowded out
of the thinking function into the domain of the other
psychic functions, which till then had existed in a state of
relative unconsciousness. The extraordinary impoverish-
ment of introverted thinking is compensated by a wealth
of unconscious facts. The more consciousness is impelled
by the thinking function to confine itself within the smallest
240 : Psychological Types
and emptiest circle — which seems, however, to contain all
the riches of the gods — the more the unconscious fantasies
will be enriched by a multitude of archaic contents, a
veritable "pandaemonium" of irrational and magical figures,
whose physiognomy will accord with the nature of the
function that will supersede the thinking function as the
vehicle of life. If it should be the intuitive function, then
the "other side" will be viewed through the eyes of a Kubin
or a Meyrink. 12 If it is the feeling function, then quite
unheard-of and fantastic feeling relationships will be
formed, coupled with contradictory and unintelligible value
judgments. If it is the sensation function, the senses will
nose up something new and never experienced before, in
and outside the body. Closer examination of these per-
mutations will easily demonstrate a recrudescence of prim-
itive psychology with all its characteristic features. Nat-
urally, such experiences are not merely primitive, they are
also symbolic; in fact, the more primordial and aboriginal
they are, the more they represent a future truth. For every-
thing old in the unconscious hints at something coming.
Under ordinary circumstances, not even the attempt to
get to the "other side" will be successful — and still less
the redeeming journey through the unconscious. The pas-
sage across is usually blocked by conscious resistance to
any subjection of the ego to the realities of the uncon-
scious and their determining power. It is a state of dissocia-
tion, in other words a neurosis characterized by inner
debility and increasing cerebral exhaustion — the symptoms
of psychasthenia.
The Introverted Thinking Type
Just as we might take Darwin as an example of the
normal extraverted thinking type, the normal introverted
12 Alfred Kubin, The Other Side, translated by Denver Lindley (New
York, 1968), and Gustav Meyrink, Das grime Gesicht (Leipzig,
1915).
General Description of the Types : 241
thinking type could be represented by Kant. The one speaks
with facts, the other relies on the subjective factor. Darwin
ranges over the wide field of objective reality, Kant restricts
himself to a critique of knowledge. Cuvicr and Nietzsche
would form an even sharper contrast.
The introverted thinking type is characterized by the
primacy of the kind of thinking I have just described. Like
his extraverted counterpart, he is strongly influenced by
ideas, though his ideas have their origin not in objective
data but in his subjective foundation. He will follow his
ideas like the extravert, but in the reverse direction: in-
wards and not outwards. Intensity is his aim, not extensity.
In these fundamental respects he differs quite unmistakably
from his extraverted counterpart. What distinguishes the
other, namely, his intense relation to objects, is almost
completely lacking in him as in every introverted type. If
the object is a person, this person has a distinct feeling
that he matters only in a negative way; in milder cases he
is merely conscious of being de trop, but with a more ex-
treme type he feels himself warded off as something def-
initely disturbing. This negative relation to the object,
ranging from indifference to aversion, characterizes every
introvert and makes a description of the type exceedingly
difficult. Everything about him tends to disappear and get
concealed. His judgment appears cold, inflexible, arbitrary,
and ruthless, because it relates far less to the object than
to the subject. One can feel nothing in it that might possibly
confer a higher value on the object; it always bypasses the
object and leaves one with a feeling of the subject's superi-
ority. He may be polite, amiable, and kind, but one is
constantly aware of a certain uneasiness betraying an
ulterior motive — the disarming of an opponent, who must
at all costs be pacified and placated lest he prove himself
a nuisance. In no sense, of course, is he an opponent, but
if he is at all sensitive he will feel himself repulsed, and
even belittled.
Invariably the object has to submit to a certain amount
of neglect, and in pathological cases it is even surrounded
242 : Psychological Types
with quite unnecessary precautionary measures. Thus
this type tends to vanish behind a cloud of misunderstand-
ing, which gets all the thicker the more he attempts to
assume, by way of compensation and with the help of his
inferior functions, an air of urbanity which contrasts glar-
ingly with his real nature. Although he will shrink from no
danger in building up his world of ideas, and never shrinks
from thinking a thought because it might prove to be
dangerous, subversive, heretical, or wounding to other peo-
ple's feelings, he is none the less beset by the greatest
anxiety if ever he has to make it an objective reality, That
goes against the grain. And when he does put his ideas into
the world, he never introduces them like a mother solicitous
for her children, but simply dumps them there and gets
extremely annoyed if they fail to thrive on their own ac-
count. His amazing unpracticalness and horror of publicity
in any form have a hand in this, If in his eyes his product
appears correct and true, then it must be so in practice, and
others have got to bow to its truth. Hardly ever will he
go out of his way to win anyone's appreciation of it, espe-
cially anyone of influence. And if ever he brings himself
to do so, he generally sets about it so clumsily that it has
just the opposite of the effect intended. He usually has bad
experiences with rivals in his own field because he never
understands how to curry their favour; as a rule he only
succeeds in showing them how entirely superfluous they
are to him. In the pursuit of his ideas he is generally stub-
born, headstrong, and quite unamenable to influence. His
suggestibility to personal influences is in strange contrast to
this. He has only to be convinced of a person's seeming
innocuousness to lay himself open to the most undesirable
elements. They seize hold of him from the unconscious. He
lets himself be brutalized and exploited in the most igno-
minious way if only he can be left in peace to pursue his
ideas. He simply does not see when he is being plundered be-
hind his back and wronged in practice, for to him the rela-
tion to people and things is secondary and the objective eval-
uation of his product is something he remains unconscious
General Description of the Types : 243
of. Because he thinks out his problems to the limit, he com-
plicates them and constantly gets entangled in his own
scruples and misgivings. However clear to him the inner
structure of his thoughts may be, he is not in the least
clear where or how they link up with the world of reality.
Only with the greatest difficulty will he bring himself to
admit that what is clear to him may not be equally clear to
everyone. His style is cluttered with all sorts of adjuncts,
accessories, qualifications, retractions, saving clauses,
doubts, etc., which all come from his scrupulosity. His work
goes slowly and with difficulty.
In his personal relations he is taciturn or else throws
himself on people who cannot understand him, and for him
this is one more proof of the abysmal stupidity of man. If
for once he is understood, he easily succumbs to credulous
overestimation of his prowess. Ambitious women have
only to know how to take advantage of his cluelessncss in
practical matters to make an easy prey of him; or he may
develop into a misanthropic bachelor with a childlike heart.
Often he is gauche in his behaviour, painfully anxious to
escape notice, or else remarkably unconcerned and child-
ishly naive. In his own special field of work he provokes
the most violent opposition, which he has no notion how
to deal with, unless he happens to be seduced by his primi-
tive affects into acrimonious and fruitless polemics. Casual
acquaintances think him inconsiderate and domineering.
But the better one knows him, the more favourable one's
judgment becomes, and his closest friends value his intimacy
very highly. To outsiders he seems prickly, unapproach-
able, and arrogant, and sometimes soured as a result of his
anti-social prejudices. As a personal teacher he has little
influence, since the mentality of his students is strange to
him. Besides, teaching has, at bottom, no interest for him
unless it happens to provide him with a theoretical problem.
He is a poor teacher, because all the time he is teaching
his thought is occupied with the material itself and not with
its presentation.
With the intensification of his type, his convictions be-
244 •' Psychological Types
come all the more rigid and unbending. Outside influences
are shut off; as a person, too, he becomes more unsym-
pathetic to his wider circle of acquaintances, and therefore
more dependent on his intimates. His tone becomes per-
sonal and surly, and though his ideas may gain in profundity
they can no longer be adequately expressed in the material
at hand. To compensate for this, he falls back on emo-
tionality and touchiness. The outside influences he has
brusquely fended off attack him from within, from the
unconscious, and in his efforts to defend himself he attacks
things that to outsiders seem utterly unimportant. Because
of the subjectivization of consciousness resulting from his
lack of relationship to the object, what secretly concerns
his own person now seems to him of extreme importance.
He begins to confuse his subjective truth with his own
personality. Although he will not try to press his convictions
on anyone personally, he will burst out with vicious, per-
sonal retorts against every criticism, however just. Thus his
isolation gradually increases. His 'originally fertilizing ideas
become destructive, poisoned by the sediment of bitterness.
His struggle against the influences emanating from the un-
conscious increases with his external isolation, until finally
they begin to cripple him. He thinks his withdrawal into
ever-increasing solitude will protect him from the uncon-
scious influences, but as a rule it only plunges him deeper
into the conflict that is destroying him from within.
The thinking of the introverted type is positive and syn-
thetic in developing ideas which approximate more and
more to the eternal validity of the primordial images. But
as their connection with objective experience becomes more
?.c\d more tenuous, they take on a mythological colouring
and no longer hold true for the contemporary situation.
Hence his thinking is of value for his contemporaries only
so long as it is manifestly and intelligibly related to the
known facts of the time. Once it has become mythological,
it ceases to be relevant and runs on in itself. The counter-
balancing functions of feeling, intuition, and sensation
General Description of the Types : 245
are comparatively unconscious and inferior, and therefore
have a primitive extraverted character that accounts for
all the troublesome influences from outside to which the
introverted thinker is prone. The various protective devices
and psychological minefields which such people surround
themselves with are known to everyone, and I can spare
myself a description of them. They all serve as a defence
against "magical" influences — and among them is a vague
fear of the feminine sex.
Feeling
Introverted feeling is determined principally by the sub-
jective factor. It differs quite as essentially from extraverted
feeling as introverted from extraverted thinking. It is ex-
tremely difficult to give an intellectual account of the intro-
verted feeling process, or even an approximate description
of it, although the peculiar nature of this kind of feeling*
is very noticeable once one has become aware of it. Since
it is conditioned subjectively and is only secondarily con-
cerned with the object, it seldom appears on the surface
and is generally misunderstood. It is a feeling which seems
to devalue the object, and it therefore manifests itself for
the most part negatively. The existence of positive feeling
can be inferred only indirectly. Its aim is not to adjust
itself to the object, but to subordinate it in an unconscious
effort to realize the underlying images. It is continually
seeking an image which has no existence in reality, but
which it has seen in a kind of vision. It glides unheedingly
over all objects that do not fit in with its aim. It strives
after inner intensity, for which the object serves at most as
a stimulus. The depth of this feeling can only be guessed
— it can never be clearly grasped. It makes people silent
and difficult of access; it shrinks back like a violet from
the brute nature of the object in order to fill the depths of
the subject. It comes out with negative judgments or as-
246 : Psychological Types
sumes an air of profound indifference as a means of de-
fence.
The primordial images are, of course, just as much ideas
as feelings. Fundamental ideas, ideas like God, freedom,
and immortality, are just as much feeling-values as they
are significant ideas. Everything, therefore, that we have
said about introverted thinking is equally true of introverted
feeling, only here everything is felt while there it was
thought. But the very fact that thoughts can generally be
expressed more intelligibly than feelings demands a more
than ordinary descriptive or artistic ability before the real
wealth of this feeling can be even approximately presented
or communicated to the world. If subjective thinking can
be understood only with difficulty because of its unrelated-
ness, this is true in even higher degree of subjective feeling.
In order to communicate with others, it has to find an ex-
ternal form not only acceptable to itself, but capable also
of arousing a parallel feeling in them. Thanks to the rela-
tively great inner (as well as outer) uniformity of human
beings, it is actually possible to do this, though the form
acceptable to feeling is extraordinarily difficult to find so
long as it is still mainly oriented to the fathomless store
of primordial images. If, however, feeling is falsified by an
egocentric attitude, it at once becomes unsympathetic, be-
cause it is then concerned mainly with the ego. It inevitably
creates the impression of sentimental self-love, of trying
to make itself interesting, and even of morbid self-admira-
tion. Just as the subjectivized consciousness of the in-
troverted thinker, striving after abstraction to the nth
degree, only succeeds in intensifying a thought-process
that is in itself empty, the intensification of egocentric
feeling only leads to inane transports of feeling for their
own sake. This is the mystical, ecstatic stage which opens
the way for the extraverted functions that feeling has
repressed. Just as introverted thinking is counterbalanced
by a primitive feeling, to which objects attach themselves
with magical force, introverted feeling is counterbalanced
General Description of the Types : 247
by a primitive thinking, whose concretism and slavery to
facts surpass all bounds. Feeling progressively emancipates
itself from the object and creates for itself a freedom of
action and conscience that is purely subjective, and may
even renounce all traditional values. But so much the more
does unconscious thinking fall a victim to the power of
objective reality.
The Introverted Feeling Type
It is principally among women that I have found the
predominance of introverted feeling. "Still waters run deep"
is very true of such women. They are mostly silent, in-
accessible, hard to understand; often they hide behind a
childish or banal mask, and their temperament is inclined
to melancholy. They neither shine nor reveal themselves.
As they are mainly guided by their subjective feelings,
their true motives generally remain hidden. Their outward
demeanour is harmonious, inconspicuous, giving an im-
pression of pleasing repose, or of sympathetic response,
with no desire to affect others, to impress, influence, or
change them in any way. If this outward aspect is more
pronounced, it arouses a suspicion of indifference and cold-
ness, which may actually turn into a disregard for the com-
fort and well-being of others. One is distinctly aware then
of the movement of feeling away from the object. With
the normal type, however, this happens only when the
influence of the object is too strong. The feeling of har-
mony, therefore, lasts only so long as the object goes its
own moderate way and makes no attempt to cross the
other's path. There is little effort to respond to the real
emotions of the other person; they are more often damped
down and rebuffed, or cooled off by a negative value judg-
ment. Although there is a constant readiness for peaceful
and harmonious co-existence, strangers are shown no touch
of amiability, no gleam of responsive warmth, but are met
248 : Psychological Types
with apparent indifference or a repelling coldness. Often
they are made to feel entirely superfluous. Faced with any-
thing that might carry her away or arouse enthusiasm, this
type observes a benevolent though critical neutrality, cou-
pled with a faint trace of superiority that soon takes the
wind out of the sails of a sensitive person. Any stormy
emotion, however, will be struck down with murderous
coldness, unless it happens to catch the woman on her un-
conscious side — that is, unless it hits her feelings by arous-
ing a primordial image. In that case she simply feels
paralyzed for the moment, and this in due course invariably
produces an even more obstinate resistance which will hit
the other person in his most vulnerable spot. As far as
possible, the feeling relationship is kept to the safe middle
path, all intemperate passions being resolutely tabooed.
Expressions of feeling therefore remain niggardly, and the
other person has a permanent sense of being undervalued
once he becomes conscious of it. But this need not always
be so, because very often he remains unconscious of the
lack of feeling shown to him, in which case the unconscious
demands of feeling will produce symptoms designed to
compel attention.
Since this type appears rather cold and reserved, it might
seem on a superficial view that such women have no feel-
ings at all. But this would be quite wrong; the truth is, their
feelings are intensive rather than extensive. They develop
in depth. While an extensive feeling of sympathy can ex-
press itself in appropriate words and deeds, and thus
quickly gets back to normal again, an intensive sympathy,
being shut off from every means of expression, acquires a
passionate depth that comprises a whole world of misery
and simply gets benumbed. It may perhaps break out in
some extravagant form and lead to an astounding act of
almost heroic character, quite unrelated either to the
subject herself or to the object that provoked the outburst.
To the outside world, or to the blind eyes of the extravert,
this intensive sympathy looks like coldness, because usually
General Description of the Types ; 249
it docs nothing visible, and an extraverted consciousness is
unable to believe in invisible forces. Such a misunderstand-
ing is a common occurrence in the life of this type, and is
used as a weighty argument against the possibility of any
deeper feeling relation with the object. But the real object
of this feeling is only dimly divined by the normal type her-
self. It may express itself in a secret religiosity anxiously
guarded from profane eyes, or in intimate poetic forms
that are kept equally well hidden, not without the secret
ambition of displaying some kind of superiority over the
other person by this means. Women often express a good
deal of their feelings through their children, letting their
passion flow secretly into them.
Although this tendency to overpower or coerce the other
person with her secret feelings rarely plays a disturbing
role in the normal type, and never leads to a serious attempt
of this kind, some trace of it nevertheless seeps through
into the personal effect they have on him, in the form of a
domineering influence often difficult to define. It is sensed
as a sort of stifling or oppressive feeling which holds every-
body around her under a spell. It gives a woman of this
type a mysterious power that may prove terribly fascinating
to the extraverted man, for it touches his unconscious. This
power comes from the deeply felt, unconscious images,
but consciously she is apt to relate it to the ego, whereupon
her influence becomes debased into a personal tyranny.
Whenever the unconscious subject is identified with the
ego, the mysterious power of intensive feeling turns into a
banal and overweening desire to dominate, into vanity and
despotic bossiness. This produces a type of woman notori-
ous for her unscrupulous ambition and mischievous cruelty.
It is a change, however, that leads to neurosis.
So long as the ego feels subordinate to the unconscious
subject, and feeling is aware of something higher and
mightier than the ego, the type is normal. Although the
unconscious thinking is archaic, its reductive tendencies
help to compensate the occasional fits of trying to exalt the
250 : Psychological Types
ego into the subject. If this should nevertheless happen as
a result of complete suppression of the counterbalancing
subliminal processes, the unconscious thinking goes over
into open opposition and gets projected. The egocentrized
subject now comes to feel the power and importance of the
devalued object. She begins consciously to feel "what other
people think." Naturally, other people are thinking all sorts
of mean things, scheming evil, contriving plots, secret in-
trigues, etc. In order to forestall them, she herself is obliged
to start counter-intrigues, to suspect others and sound them
out, and weave counterplots. Beset by rumours, she must
make frantic efforts to get her own back and be top dog.
Endless clandestine rivalries spring up, and in these em-
bittered struggles she will shrink from no baseness or mean-
ness, and will even prostitute her virtues in order to play
the trump card. Such a state of affairs must end in exhaus-
tion. The form of neurosis is neurasthenic rather than
hysterical, often with severe physical complications, such
as anaemia and its sequelae.
Summary of the Introverted Rational Types
Both the foregoing types may be termed rational, since
they are grounded on the functions of rational judgment,
Rational judgment is based not merely on objective but
also on subjective data. The predominance of one or the
other factor, however, as a result of a psychic disposition
often existing from early youth, will give the judgment a
corresponding bias. A judgment that is truly rational will
appeal to the objective and the subjective factor equally
and do justice to both. But that would be an ideal case and
would presuppose an equal development of both extraver-
sion and introversion. In practice, however, either move-
ment excludes the other, and, so long as this dilemma
remains, they cannot exist side by side but at best suc-
cessively. Under ordinary conditions, therefore, an ideal
j
General Description of the Types : 251
rationality is impossible. The rationality of a rational type
always has a typical bias. Thus, the judgment of the intro-
verted rational types is undoubtedly rational, only it is
oriented more by the subjective factor. This does not neces-
sarily imply any logical bias, since the bias lies in the
premise. The premise consists in the predominance of the
subjective factor prior to all conclusions and judgments.
The superior value of the subjective as compared with the
objective factor appears self-evident from the beginning.
It is not a question of assigning this value, but, as we
have said, of a natural disposition existing before all ra-
tional valuation. Hence, to the introvert, rational judgment
has many nuances which differentiate it from that of the
extravert. To mention only the most general instance, the
chain of reasoning that leads to the subjective factor seems
to the introvert somewhat more rational than the one that
leads to the object. This difference, though slight and prac-
tically unnoticeable in individual cases, builds up in the end
to unbridgeable discrepancies which are the more irritating
the less one is aware of the minimal shift of standpoint
occasioned by the psychological premise. A capital error
regularly creeps in here, for instead of recognizing the
difference in the premise one tries to demonstrate a fallacy
in the conclusion. This recognition is a difficult matter for
every rational type, since it undermines the apparently
absolute validity of his own principle and delivers him
over to its antithesis, which for him amounts to a catas-
trophe.
The introvert is far more subject to misunderstanding
than the extravert, not so much because the extravert is a
more merciless or critical adversary than he himself might
be, but because the style of the times which he himself
imitates works against him. He finds himself in the minor-
ity, not in numerical relation to the extravert, but in rela-
tion to the general Western view of the world as judged
by his feeling. In so far as he is a convinced participator
in the general style, he undermines his own foundations;
252 ; Psychological Types
for the general style, acknowledging as it does only the
visible and tangible values, is opposed to his specific prin-
ciple. Because of its invisibility, he is obliged to depreciate
the subjective factor, and must force himself to join in the
extraverted overvaluation of the object. He himself sets the
subjective factor at too low a value, and his feelings of
inferiority are his chastisement for this sin. Little wonder,
therefore, that it is precisely in the present epoch, and
particularly in those movements which are somewhat ahead
of the time, that the subjective factor reveals itself in
exaggerated, tasteless forms of expression bordering on
caricature. I refer to the art of the present day.
The undervaluation of his own principle makes the intro-
vert egotistical and forces on him the psychology of the
underdog. The more egotistical he becomes, the more it
seems to him that the others, who are apparently able,
without qualms, to conform to the general style, are the
oppressors against whom he must defend himself. He
generally does not see that his chief error lies in not de-
pending on the subjective factor with the same trust and
devotion with which the extravert relies on the object. His
undervaluation of his own principle makes his leanings
towards egotism unavoidable, and because of this he fully
deserves the censure of the extravert. If he remained true
to his own principle, the charge of egotism would be
altogether false, for his attitude would be justified by its
effects in general, and the misunderstanding would be
dissipated,
Sensation
Sensation, which by its very nature is dependent on the
object and on objective stimuli, undergoes considerable
modification in the introverted attitude. It, too, has a
subjective factor, for besides the sensed object there is a
sensing subject who adds his subjective disposition to the
General Description of the Types : 253
objective stimulus. In the introverted attitude sensation is
based predominantly on the subjective component of per-
ception. What I mean by this is best illustrated by works
of art which reproduce external objects. If, for instance,
several painters were to paint the same landscape, each
trying to reproduce it faithfully, each painting will be
different from the others, not merely because of differ-
ences in ability, but chiefly because of different ways of
seeing; indeed, in some of the paintings there will be a
distinct psychic difference in mood and the treatment of
colour and form. These qualities betray the influence of
the subjective factor. The subjective factor in sensation is
essentially the same as in the other functions we have dis-
cussed. It is an unconscious disposition which alters the
sense-perception at its source, thus depriving it of the
character of a purely objective influence. In this case,
sensation is related primarily to the subject and only sec-
ondarily to the object. How extraordinarily strong the
subjective factor can be is shown most clearly in art. Its
predominance sometimes amounts to a complete suppres-
sion of the object's influence, and yet the sensation remains
sensation even though it has become a perception of the
subjective factor and the object has sunk to the level of a
mere stimulus. Introverted sensation is oriented accord-
ingly. True sense-perception certainly exists, but it always
looks as though the object did not penetrate into the sub-
ject in its own right, but as though the subject were seeing
it quite differently, or saw quite other things than other
people sec. Actually, he perceives the same things as
everybody else, only he does not stop at the purely ob-
jective influence, but concerns himself with the subjective
perception excited by the objective stimulus.
Subjective perception is markedly different from the
objective. What is perceived is either not found at all in
the object, or is, at most, merely suggested by it. That is,
although the perception can be similar to that of other
men, it is not immediately derived from the objective be-
254 •* Psychological Types
haviour of things. It does not impress one as a mere prod-
uct of consciousness — it is too genuine for that. But it
makes a definite psychic impression because elements of
a higher psychic order are discernible in it. This order,
however, does not coincide with the contents of conscious-
ness. It has to do with presuppositions or dispositions of
the collective unconscious, with mythological images, with
primordial possibilities of ideas. Subjective perception is
characterized by the meaning that clings to it. It means
more than the mere image of the object, though naturally
only to one for whom the subjective factor means anything
at all. To another, the reproduced subjective impression
seems to suffer from the defect of not being sufficiently
like the object and therefore to have failed in its purpose.
Introverted sensation apprehends the background of the
physical world rather than its surface. The decisive thing
is not the reality of the object, but the reality of the sub-
jective factor, of the primordial images which, in their
totality, constitute a psychic mirror-world. It is a mirror
with the peculiar faculty of reflecting the existing con-
tents of consciousness not in their known and customary
form but, as it were, sub specie aeternitatis, somewhat as
a million-year-old consciousness might see them. Such a
consciousness would see the becoming and passing away
of things simultaneously with their momentary existence
in the present, and not only that, it would also see what
was before their becoming and will be after their passing
hence. Naturally this is only a figure of speech, but one
that I needed in order to illustrate in some way the peculiar
nature of introverted sensation. We could say that in-
troverted sensation transmits an image which does not so
much reproduce the object as spread over it the patina of
age-old subjective experience and the shimmer of events
still unborn. The bare sense impression develops in depth,
reaching into the past and future, while extraverted sensa-
tion seizes on the momentary existence of things open to
the light of day.
General Description of the Types : 255
The Introverted Sensation Type
The predominance of introverted sensation produces a
definite type, which is characterized by certain peculiarities.
It is an irrational type, because it is oriented amid the
flux of events not by rational judgment but simply by what
happens. Whereas the extraverted sensation type is guided
by the intensity of objective influences, the introverted
type is guided by the intensity of the subjective sensation
excited by the objective stimulus. Obviously, therefore, no
proportional relation exists between object and sensation,
but one that is apparently quite unpredictable and arbi-
trary. What will make an impression and what will not
can never be seen in advance, and from outside. Did
there exist an aptitude for expression in any way propor-
tional to the intensity of his sensations, the irrationality of
this type would be extraordinarily striking. This is the
case, for instance, when an individual is a creative artist.
But since this is the exception, the introvert's characteristic
difficulty in expressing himself also conceals his irrational-
ity. On the contrary, he may be conspicuous for his calm-
ness and passivity, or for his rational self-control. This
peculiarity, which often leads a superficial judgment astray,
is really due to his unrelatedness to objects. Normally the
object is not consciously devalued in the least, but its
stimulus is removed from it and immediately replaced by
a subjective reaction no longer related to the reality of the
object. This naturally has the same effect as devaluation.
Such a type can easily make one question why one should
exist at all, or why objects in general should have any
justification for their existence since everything essential
still goes on happening without them. This doubt may be
justified in extreme cases, but not in the normal, since the
objective stimulus is absolutely necessary to sensation and
merely produces something different from what the ex-
ternal situation might lead one to expect.
256 : Psychological Types
Seen from the outside, it looks as though the effect of
the object did not penetrate into the subject at all. This
impression is correct inasmuch as a subjective content does,
in fact, intervene from the unconscious and intercept the
effect of the object. The intervention may be so abrupt
that the individual appears to be shielding himself directly
from all objective influences. In more serious cases, such
a protective defence actually does exist. Even with only
a slight increase in the power of the unconscious, the sub-
jective component of sensation becomes so alive that it
almost completely obscures the influence of the object. If
the object is a person, he feels completely devalued, while
the subject has an illusory conception of reality, which in
pathological cases goes so far that he is no longer able to
distinguish between the real object and the subjective per-
ception. Although so vital a distinction reaches the vanish-
ing point only in near-psychotic states, yet long before
that the subjective perception can influence thought, feel-
ing, and action to an excessive degree despite the fact
that the object is clearly seen in all its reality. When its
influence does succeed in penetrating into the subject —
because of its special intensity or because of its complete
analogy with the unconscious image — even the normal type
will be compelled to act in accordance with the uncon-
scious model. Such action has an illusory character un-
related to objective reality and is extremely disconcerting.
It instantly reveals the reality-alienating subjectivity of this
type. But when the influence of the object does not break
through completely, it is met with a well-intentioned neu-
trality, disclosing little sympathy yet constantly striving to
soothe and adjust. The too low is raised a little, the too
high is lowered, enthusiasm is damped down, extravagance
restrained, and anything out of the ordinary reduced to
the right formula — all this in order to keep the influence
of the object within the necessary bounds. In this way
the type becomes a menace to his environment because
his total innocuousness is not altogether above suspicion.
In that case he easily becomes a victim of the aggressive-
General Description of the Types : 257
ness and domineeringness of others. Such men allow them-
selves to be abused and then take their revenge on the
most unsuitable occasions with redoubled obtuseness and
stubbornness.
If no capacity for artistic expression is present, all im-
pressions sink into the depths and hold consciousness under
a spell, so that it becomes impossible to master their fas-
cination by giving them conscious expression. In general,
this type can organize his impressions • only in archaic
ways, because thinking and feeling are relatively uncon-
scious and, if conscious at all, have at their disposal only
the most necessary, banal, everyday means of expression.
As conscious functions, they are wholly incapable of ade-
quately reproducing his subjective perceptions. This type,
therefore, is uncommonly inaccessible to objective under-
standing, and he usually fares no better in understanding
himself.
Above all, his development alienates him from the reality
of the object, leaving him at the mercy of his subjective
perceptions, which orient his consciousness to an archaic
reality, although his lack of comparative judgment keeps
him wholly unconscious of this fact. Actually he lives in
a mythological world, where men, animals, locomotives,
houses, rivers, and mountains appear either as benevolent
deities or as malevolent demons. That they appear thus
to him never enters his head, though that is just the effect
they have on his judgments and actions. He judges and
acts as though he had such powers to deal with; but this
begins to strike him only when he discovers that his sensa-
tions are totally different from reality. If he has any apti-
tude for objective reason, he will sense this difference as
morbid; but if he remains faithful to his irrationality, and
is ready to grant his sensations reality value, the objective
world will appear a mere make-believe and a comedy.
Only in extreme cases, however, is this dilemma reached.
As a rule he resigns himself to his isolation and the banality
of the world, which he has unconsciously made archaic.
His unconscious is distinguished chiefly by the repression
258 : Psychological Types
of intuition, which consequently acquires an extraverted
and archaic character. Whereas true extraverted intuition
is possessed of a singular resourcefulness, a "good nose"
for objectively real possibilities, this archaicized intuition
has an amazing flair for all the ambiguous, shadowy, sor-
did, dangerous possibilities lurking in the background. The
real and conscious intentions of the object mean nothing
to it; instead, it sniffs out every conceivable archaic motive
underlying such an intention. It therefore has a dangerous
and destructive quality that contrasts glaringly with the
well-meaning innocuousness of the conscious attitude. So
long as the individual does not hold too aloof from the
object, his unconscious intuition has a salutary compen-
sating effect on the rather fantastic and overcredulous
attitude of consciousness. But as soon as the unconscious
becomes antagonistic, the archaic intuitions come to the
surface and exert their pernicious influence, forcing them-
selves on the individual and producing compulsive ideas
of the most perverse kind. The result is usually a compul-
sion neurosis, in which the hysterical features are masked
by symptoms of exhaustion.
Intuition
Introverted intuition is directed to the inner object, a
term that might justly be applied to the contents of the
unconscious. The relation of inner objects to consciousness
is entirely analogous to that of outer objects, though their
reality is not physical but psychic. They appear to intui-
tive perception as subjective images of things which,
though not to be met with in the outside world, constitute
the contents of the unconscious, and of the collective un-
conscious in particular. These contents per se are naturally
not accessible to experience, a quality they have in com-
mon with external objects. For just as external objects
correspond only relatively to our perception of them, so
General Description of the Types : 259
the phenomenal forms of the inner objects are also rela-
tive — products of their (to us) inaccessible essence and of
the peculiar nature of the intuitive function.
Like sensation, intuition has its subjective factor, which
is suppressed as much as possible in the extraverted atti-
tude but is the decisive factor in the intuition of the in-
trovert. Although his intuition may be stimulated by ex-
ternal objects, it does not concern itself with external
possibilities but with what the external object has released
within him. Whereas introverted sensation is mainly re-
stricted to the perception, via the unconscious, of the
phenomena of innervation and is arrested there, intro-
verted intuition suppresses this side of the subjective factor
and perceives the image that caused the innervation. Sup-
posing, for instance, a man is overtaken by an attack of
psychogenic vertigo. Sensation is arrested by the peculiar
nature of this disturbance of innervation, perceiving all
its qualities, its intensity, its course, how it arose and how
it passed, but not advancing beyond that to its content,
to the thing that caused the disturbance. Intuition, on the
other hand, receives from sensation only the impetus to its
own immediate activity; it peers behind the scenes, quickly
perceiving the inner image that gave rise to this particular
form of expression — the attack of vertigo. It sees the
image of a tottering man pierced through the heart by an
arrow. This image fascinates the intuitive activity; it is
arrested by it, and seeks to explore every detail of it. It
holds fast to the vision, observing with the liveliest interest
how the picture changes, unfolds, and finally fades.
In this way introverted intuition perceives all the back-
ground processes of consciousness with almost the same
distinctness as extraverted sensation registers external ob-
jects. For intuition, therefore, unconscious images acquire
the dignity of things. But, because intuition excludes the
co-operation of sensation, it obtains little or no knowledge
of the disturbances of innervation or of the physical efTccts
produced by the unconscious images. The images appear
260 : Psychological Types
as though detached from the subject, as though existing in
themselves without any relation to him. Consequently, in
the above-mentioned example, the introverted intuitive, if
attacked by vertigo, would never imagine that the image
he perceived might in some way refer to himself. To a
judging type this naturally seems almost inconceivable, but
it is none the less a fact which I have often come across
in my dealings with intuitives.
The remarkable indifference of the extraverted intuitive
to external objects is shared by the introverted intuitive in
relation to inner objects. Just as the extraverted intuitive
is continually scenting out new possibilities, which he pur-
sues with equal unconcern for his own welfare and for
that of others, pressing on quite heedless of human con-
siderations and tearing down what has just been built in
his everlasting search for change, so the introverted intui-
tive moves from image to image, chasing after every possi-
bility in the teeming womb of the unconscious, without
establishing any connection between them and himself.
Just as the world of appearances can never become a
moral problem for the man who merely senses it, the
world of inner images is never a moral problem for the
intuitive. For both of them it is an aesthetic problem, a
matter of perception, a "sensation." Because of this, the
introverted intuitive has little consciousness of his own
bodily existence or of its effect on others. The extravert
would say: "Reality does not exist for him, he gives him-
self up to fruitless fantasies." The perception of the images
of the unconscious, produced in such inexhaustible abun-
dance by the creative energy of life, is of course fruitless
from the standpoint of immediate utility. But since these
images represent possible views of the world which may
give life a new potential, this function, which to the outside
world is the strangest of all, is as indispensable to the
total psychic economy as is the corresponding human type
to the psychic life of a people. Had this type not existed,
there would have been no prophets in Israel.
Introverted intuition apprehends the images arising from
General Description of the Types : 26 J
the a priori inherited foundations of the unconscious. These
archetypes, whose innermost nature is inaccessible to ex-
perience, are the precipitate of the psychic functioning of
the whole ancestral line; the accumulated experiences of
organic life in general, a million times repeated, and con-
densed into types. In these archetypes, therefore, all ex-
periences are represented which have happened on this
planet since primeval times. The more frequent and the
more intense they were, the more clearly focussed they
become in the archetype. The archetype would thus be, to
borrow from Kant, the noumenon of the image which in-
tuition perceives and, in perceiving, creates.
Since the unconscious is not just something that lies
there like a psychic caput mortuum, but co-exists with us
and is constantly undergoing transformations which are
inwardly connected with the general run of events, in-
troverted intuition, through its perception of these inner
processes, can supply certain data which may be of the
utmost importance for understanding what is going on in
the world. It can even foresee new possibilities in more
or less clear outline, as well as events which later actually
do happen. Its prophetic foresight is explained by its rela-
tion to the archetypes, which represent the laws governing
the course of all experienceable things.
The Introverted Intuitive Type
The peculiar nature of introverted intuition, if it gains
the ascendency, produces a peculiar type of man: the
mystical dreamer and seer on the one hand, the artist and
the crank on the other. The artist might be regarded as
the normal representative of this type, which tends to
confine itself to the perceptive character of intuition. As
a rule, the intuitive stops at perception; perception is his
main problem, and — in the case of a creative artist — the
shaping of his perception. But the crank is content with
a visionary idea by which he himself is shaped and deter-
262 : Psychological Types
mined. Naturally the intensification of intuition often re-
sults in an extraordinary aloofness of the individual from
tangible reality; he may even become a complete enigma
to his immediate circle. If he is an artist, he reveals strange,
far-off things in his art, shimmering in all colours, at once
portentous and banal, beautiful and grotesque, sublime and
whimsical. If not an artist, he is frequently a misunderstood
genius, a great man "gone wrong," a sort of wise simple-
ton, a figure for "psychological" novels.
Although the intuitive type has little inclination to make
a moral problem of perception, since a strengthening of
the judging functions is required for this, only a slight
differentiation of judgment is sufficient to shift intuitive
perception from the purely aesthetic into the moral sphere.
A variety of this type is thus produced which differs essen-
tially from the aesthetic, although it is none the less char-
acteristic of the introverted intuitive. The moral problem
arises when the intuitive tries to relate himself to his vision,
when he is no longer satisfied with mere perception and
its aesthetic configuration and evaluation, when he con-
fronts the questions: What does this mean for me or the
world? What emerges from this vision in the way of a
duty or a task, for me or the world? The pure intuitive
who represses his judgment, or whose judgment is held in
thrall by his perceptive faculties, never faces this question
squarely, since his only problem is the "know-how" of
perception. He finds the moral problem unintelligible or
even absurd, and as far as possible forbids his thoughts to
dwell on the disconcerting vision. It is different with the
morally oriented intuitive. He reflects on the meaning of
his vision, and is less concerned with developing its aes-
thetic possibilities than with the moral effects which emerge
from its intrinsic significance. His judgment allows him
to discern, though often only darkly, that he, as a man and
a whole human being, is somehow involved in his vision,
that it is not just an object to be perceived, but wants to
participate in the life of the subject. Through this realiza-
General Description of the Types : 26$
tion he feels bound to transform his vision into his own
life. But since he tends to rely most predominately on his
vision, his moral efforts become one-sided; he makes him-
self and his life symbolic — adapted, it is true, to the inner
and eternal meaning of events, but unadapted to present-
day reality. He thus deprives himself of any influence upon
it because he remains uncomprehended. His language is
not the one currently spoken — it has become too subjec-
tive. His arguments lack the convincing power of reason.
He can only profess or proclaim. His is "the voice of one
crying in the wilderness."
What the introverted intuitive represses most of all is
the sensation of the object, and this colours his whole
unconscious. It gives rise to a compensatory extraverted
sensation function of an archaic character. The uncon-
scious personality can best be described as an extraverted
sensation type of a rather low and primitive order. In-
stinctuality and intemperance are the hallmarks of this
sensation, combined with an extraordinary dependence on
sense-impressions. This compensates the rarefied air of the
intuitive's conscious attitude, giving it a certain weight,
so that complete "sublimation" is prevented. But if, through
a forced exaggeration of the conscious attitude, there
should be a complete subordination to inner perceptions,
the unconscious goes over to the opposition, giving rise
to compulsive sensations whose excessive dependence on
the object directly contradicts the conscious attitude. The
form of neurosis is a compulsion neurosis with hypochon-
driacal symptoms, hypersensitivity of the sense organs, and
compulsive ties to particular persons or objects.
Summary of the Introverted Irrational Types
The two types just described are almost inaccessible to
judgment from outside. Being introverted, and having in
consequence little capacity or desire for expression, they
264 : Psychological Types
offer but a frail handle in this respect. As their main ac-
tivity is directed inwards, nothing is outwardly visible but
reserve, secretiveness, lack of sympathy, uncertainty, and
an apparently groundless embarrassment. When anything
does come to the surface, it is generally an indirect mani-
festation of the inferior and relatively unconscious func-
tions. Such manifestations naturally arouse all the current
prejudices against this type. Accordingly they are mostly
underestimated, or at least misunderstood. To the extent
that they do not understand themselves — because they
very largely lack judgment — they are also powerless to
understand why they are so constantly underestimated by
the public. They cannot see that their efforts to be forth-
coming are, as a matter of fact, of an inferior character.
Their vision is enthralled by the richness of subjective
events. What is going on inside them is so captivating, and
of such inexhaustible charm, that they simply do not notice
that the little they do manage to communicate contains
hardly anything of what they themselves have experienced.
The fragmentary and episodic character of their com-
munications makes too great a demand on the under-
standing and good will of those around them; also, their
communications are without the personal warmth that
alone carries the power of conviction. On the contrary,
these types have very often a harsh, repelling manner,
though of this they are quite unaware and they did not
intend it. We shall form a fairer judgment of such people,
and show them greater forbearance, when we begin to
realize how hard it is to translate into intelligible language
what is perceived within. Yet this forbearance must not
go so far as to exempt them altogether from the need to
communicate. This would only do them the greatest harm.
Fate itself prepares for them, perhaps even more than for
other men, overwhelming external difficulties which have
a very sobering effect on those intoxicated by the inner
vision. Often it is only an intense personal need that can
wring from them a human confession.
General Description of the Types : 265
From an extraverted and rationalistic standpoint, these
types are indeed the most useless of men. But, viewed from
a higher standpoint, they are living evidence that this rich
and varied world with its overflowing and intoxicating life
is not purely external, but also exists within. These types
are admittedly one-sided specimens of nature, but they
are an object-lesson for the man who refuses to be blinded
by the intellectual fashion of the day. In their own
way, they are educators and promoters of culture. Their
life teaches more than their words. From their lives,
and not least from their greatest fault — their inability to
communicate — we may understand one of the greatest
errors of our civilization, that is, the superstitious belief in
verbal statements, the boundless overestimation of instruc-
tion by means of words and methods. A child certainly
allows himself to be impressed by the grand talk of his
parents, but is it really imagined that he is educated by
it? Actually it is the parents' lives that educate the child,
and what they add by word and gesture serves at best
only to confuse him. The same holds good for the teacher.
But we have such a belief in method that, if only the
method be good, the practice of it seems to sanctify the
teacher. An inferior man is never a good teacher. But he
can conceal his pernicious inferiority, which secretly poi-
sons the pupil, behind an excellent method or an equally
brilliant intellectual gift of the gab. Naturally the pupil of
riper years desires nothing better than the knowledge of
useful methods, because he is already defeated by the
general attitude, which believes in the all-conquering
method. He has learnt that the emptiest head, correctly
parroting a method, is the best pupil. His whole environ-
ment is an optical demonstration that all success and all
happiness are outside, and that only the right method is
needed to attain the haven of one's desires. Or does, per-
chance, the life of his religious instructor demonstrate the
happiness which radiates from the treasure of the inner
vision? The irrational introverted types are certainly no
266 : Psychological Types
teachers of a more perfect humanity; they lack reason and
the ethics of reason. But their lives teach the other possi-
bility, the interior life which is so painfully wanting in our
civilization.
d) The Principal and Auxiliary Functions
In the foregoing descriptions I have no desire to give
my readers the impression that these types occur at all
frequently in such pure form in actual life. They are, as
it were, only Galtonesque family portraits, which single
out the common and therefore typical features, stressing
them disproportionately, while the individual features are
just as disproportionately effaced. Closer investigation
shows with great regularity that, besides the most differen-
tiated function, another, less differentiated function of
secondary importance is invariably present in conscious-
ness and exerts a co-determining influence.
To recapitulate for the sake of clarity: the products of
all functions can be conscious, but we speak of the "con-
sciousness" of a function only when its use is under the
control of the will and, at the same time, its governing
principle is the decisive one for the orientation of con-
sciousness. This is true when, for instance, thinking is not
a mere afterthought, or rumination, and when its conclu-
sions possess an absolute validity, so that the logical re-
sult holds good both as a motive and as a guarantee of
practical action without the backing of any further evi-
dence. This absolute sovereignty always belongs, empir-
ically, to one function alone, and can belong only to one
function, because the equally independent intervention of
another function would necessarily produce a different
orientation which, partially at least, would contradict the
first. But since it is a vital condition for the conscious
process of adaptation always to have clear and unam-
biguous aims, the presence of a second function of equal
General Description of the Types : 267
power is naturally ruled out. This other function, there-
fore, can have only a secondary importance, as has been
found to be the case in practice. Its secondary importance
is due to the fact that it is not, like the primary function,
valid in its own right as an absolutely reliable and de-
cisive factor, but comes into play more as an auxiliary or
complementary function. Naturally only those functions
can appear as auxiliary whose nature is not opposed to
the dominant function. For instance, feeling can never
act as the second function alongside thinking, because it
is by its very nature too strongly opposed to thinking.
Thinking, if it is to be real thinking and true to its own
principle, must rigorously exclude feeling. This, of course,
does not do away with the fact that there are individuals
whose thinking and feeling are on the same level, both
being of equal motive power for consciousness. But in
these cases there is also no question of a differentiated
type, but merely of relatively undeveloped thinking and
feeling. The uniformly conscious or uniformly unconscious
state of the functions is, therefore, the mark of a primitive
mentality.
Experience shows that the secondary function is always
one whose nature is different from, though not antagonistic
to, the primary function. Thus, thinking as the primary
function can readily pair with intuition as the auxiliary, or
indeed equally well with sensation, but, as already ob-
served, never with feeling. Neither intuition nor sensation
is antagonistic to thinking; they need not be absolutely ex-
cluded, for they are not of a nature equal and opposite to
thinking, as feeling is — which, as a judging function, suc-
cessfully competes with thinking — but are functions of
perception, affording welcome assistance to thought. But
as soon as they reached the same level of differentiation
as thinking, they would bring about a change of attitude
which would contradict the whole trend of thinking. They
would change the judging attitude into a perceiving one;
whereupon the principle of rationality indispensable to
268 : Psychological Types
thought would be suppressed in favour of the irrationality
of perception. Hence the auxiliary function is possible and
useful only in so far as it serves the dominant function,
without making any claim to the autonomy of its own
principle.
For all the types met with in practice, the rule holds
good that besides the conscious, primary function there is
a relatively unconscious, auxiliary function which is in
every respect different from the nature of the primary
function. The resulting combinations present the familiar
picture of, for instance, practical thinking allied with
sensation, speculative thinking forging ahead with intui-
tion, artistic intuition selecting and presenting its images
with the help of feeling-values, philosophical intuition
systematizing its vision into comprehensible thought by
means of a powerful intellect, and so on.
The unconscious functions likewise group themselves in
patterns correlated with the conscious ones. Thus, the
correlative of conscious, practical thinking may be an
unconscious, intuitive-feeling attitude, with feeling under
a stronger inhibition than intuition. These peculiarities are
of interest only for one who is concerned with the prac-
tical treatment of such cases, but it is important that he
should know about them. I have frequently observed how
an analyst, confronted with a terrific thinking type, for
instance, will do his utmost to develop the feeling function
directly out of the unconscious. Such an attempt is fore-
doomed to failure, because it involves too great a violation
of the conscious standpoint. Should the violation never-
theless be successful, a really compulsive dependence of
the patient on the analyst ensues, a transference that can
only be brutally terminated, because, having been left with-
out a standpoint, the patient has made his standpoint the
analyst. But the approach to the unconscious and to the
most repressed function is disclosed, as it were, of its own
accord, and with adequate protection of the conscious
standpoint, when the way of development proceeds via
General Description of the Types : 269
the auxiliary function — in the case of a rational type via
one of the irrational functions. This gives the patient a
broader view of what is happening, and of what is possible,
so that his consciousness is sufficiently protected against
the inroads of the unconscious. Conversely, in order to
cushion the impact of the unconscious, an irrational type
needs a stronger development of the rational auxiliary
function present in consciousness.
The unconscious functions exist in an archaic, animal
state. Hence their symbolic appearance in dreams and
fantasies is usually represented as the battle or encounter
between two animals or monsters.
& Part II &
9
The Transcendent Function 1
There is nothing mysterious or metaphysical about the term
"transcendent function." It means a psychological function
comparable in its way to a mathematical function of the
same name, which is a function of real and imaginary num-
bers. The psychological "transcendent function" arises from
the union of conscious and unconscious contents.
Experience in analytical psychology has amply shown
that the conscious and the unconscious seldom agree as to
their contents and their tendencies. This lack of parallelism
is not just accidental or purposeless, but is due to the fact
that the unconscious behaves in a compensatory or com-
plementary manner towards the conscious. We can also put
it the other way round and say that the conscious behaves
1 From The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche. Collected Works,
Vol. 8. [Written in 1916 under the title "Die Transzendente Funk-
tion," the ms. lay in Professor Jung's files until 1953. First published
in 1957 by the Students Association, C. G. Jung Institute, Zurich,
in an English translation by A. R. Pope. The German original, con-
siderably revised by the author, was published in Geist und Werk
. . . zum 75. Geburtstag von Dr. Daniel Brody (Zurich, 1958), to-
gether with a prefatory note of more general import specially written
for that volume. The author has partially rewritten the note for
publication here. The present translation is based on the revised
German version, and Mr. Pope's translation has been consulted. —
Editors of The Collected Works.]
273
274 •' The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
in a complementary manner towards the unconscious. The
reasons for this relationship are:
(i) Consciousness possesses a threshold intensity which
its contents must have attained, so that all elements that are
too weak remain in the unconscious.
(2) Consciousness, because of its directed functions, ex-
ercises an inhibition (which Freud calls censorship) on all
incompatible material, with the result that it sinks into the
unconscious,
(3) Consciousness constitutes the momentary process of
adaptation, whereas the unconscious contains not only all
the forgotten material of the individual's own past, but all
the inherited behaviour traces constituting the structure of
the mind.
(4) The unconscious contains all the fantasy combina-
tions which have not yet attained the threshold intensity,
but which in the course of time and under suitable condi-
tions will enter the light of consciousness.
This readily explains the complementary attitude of the
unconscious towards the conscious.
The definiteness and directedness of the conscious mind
are qualities that have been acquired relatively late in the
history of the human race, and are for instance largely lack-
ing among primitives today. These qualities are often im-
paired in the neurotic patient, who differs from the normal
person in that his threshold of consciousness gets shifted
more easily; in other words, the partition between con-
scious and unconscious is much more permeable. The psy-
chotic, on the other hand, is under the direct influence of
the unconscious.
The definiteness and directedness of the conscious mind
are extremely important acquisitions which humanity has
bought at a very heavy sacrifice, and which in turn have
rendered humanity the highest service. Without them sci-
ence, technology, and civilization would be impossible, for
they all presuppose the reliable continuity and directedness
of the conscious process. For the statesman, doctor, and
The Transcendent Function : 275
engineer as well as for the simplest labourer, these qualities
are absolutely indispensable. We may say in general that
social worthlessness increases to the degree that these quali-
ties are impaired by the unconscious. Great artists and
others distinguished by creative gifts are, of course, excep-
tions to this rule. The very advantage that such individuals
enjoy consists precisely in the permeability of the partition
separating the conscious and the unconscious. But, for
those professions and social activities which require just this
continuity and reliability, these exceptional human beings
are as a rule of little value.
It is therefore understandable, and even necessary, that
in each individual the psychic process should be as stable
and definite as possible, since the exigencies of life demand
it. But this involves a certain disadvantage: the quality of
directedness makes for the inhibition or exclusion of all
those psychic elements which appear to be, or really are,
incompatible with it, i.e., likely to bias the intended direc-
tion to suit their purpose and so lead to an undesircd goal.
But how do we know that the concurrent psychic material
is "incompatible"? We know it by an act of judgment
which determines the direction of the path that is chosen
and desired. This judgment is partial and prejudiced, since
it chooses one particular possibility at the cost of all the
others. The judgment in its turn is always based on experi-
ence, i.e., on what is already known. As a rule it is never
based on what is new, what is still unknown, and what
under certain conditions might considerably enrich the di-
rected process. It is evident that it cannot be, for the very
reason that the unconscious contents are excluded from
consciousness.
Through such acts of judgment the directed process
necessarily becomes one-sided, even though the rational
judgment may appear many-sided and unprejudiced. The
very rationality of the judgment may even be the worst
prejudice, since we call reasonable what appears reasonable
to us. What appears to us unreasonable is therefore doomed
2j6 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
to be excluded because of its irrational character. It may
really be irrational, but may equally well merely appear ir-
rational without actually being so when seen from another
standpoint.
One-sidedness is an unavoidable and necessary charac-
teristic of the directed process, for direction implies one-
sidedness. It is an advantage and a drawback at the same
time. Even when no outwardly visible drawback seems to
be present, there is always an equally pronounced counter-
position in the unconscious, unless it happens to be the ideal
case where all the psychic components are tending in one
and the same direction. This possibility cannot be disputed
in theory, but in practice it very rarely happens. The
counter-position in the unconscious is not dangerous so long
as it does not possess any high energy-value. But if the ten-
sion increases as a result of too great one-sidedness, the
counter-tendency breaks through into consciousness, usually
just at the moment when it is most important to maintain
the conscious direction. Thus the speaker makes a slip of
the tongue just when he particularly wishes not to say any-
thing stupid. This moment is critical because it possesses a
high energy tension which, when the unconscious is already
charged, may easily "spark" and release the unconscious
content.
Civilized life today demands concentrated, directed con-
scious functioning, and this entails the risk of a consider-
able dissociation from the unconscious. The further we are
able to remove ourselves from the unconscious through di-
rected functioning, the more readily a powerful counter-
position can build up in the unconscious, and when this
breaks out it may have disagreeable consequences.
Analysis has given us a profound insight into the impor-
tance of unconscious influences, and we have learnt so
much from this for our practical life that we deem it unwise
to expect an elimination or standstill of. the unconscious
after the so-called completion of the treatment. Many pa-
tients, obscurely recognizing this state of affairs, have great
The Transcendent Function : 277
difficulty in deciding to give up the analysis, although both
they and the analyst find the feeling of dependency irksome.
Often they are afraid to risk standing on their own feet,
because they know from experience that the unconscious
can intervene again and again in their lives in a disturbing
and apparently unpredictable manner.
It was formerly assumed that patients were ready to cope
with normal life as soon as they had acquired enough prac-
tical self-knowledge to understand their own dreams. Ex-
perience has shown, however, that even professional ana-
lysts, who might be expected to have mastered the art of
dream interpretation, often capitulate before their own
dreams and have to call in the help of a colleague. If even
one who purports to be an expert in the method proves un-
able to interpret his own dreams satisfactorily, how much
less can this be expected of the patient. Freud's hope that
the unconscious could be "exhausted" has not been fulfilled.
Dream-life and intrusions from the unconscious continue —
mutatis mutandis — unimpeded.
There is a widespread prejudice that analysis is some-
thing like a "cure," to which one submits for a time and is
then discharged healed. That is a layman's error left over
from the early days of psychoanalysis. Analytical treatment
could be described as a readjustment of psychological atti-
tude achieved with the help of the doctor. Naturally this
newly won attitude, which is better suited to the inner and
outer conditions, can last a considerable time, but there are
very few cases where a single "cure" is permanently suc-
cessful. It is true that medical optimism has never stinted
itself of publicity and has always been able to report defini-
tive cures We must, however, not let ourselves be deceived
by the all-too-human attitude of the practitioner, but should
always remember that the life of the unconscious goes on
and continually produces problematical situations. There is
no need for pessimism; we have seen too many excellent re-
sults achieved with good luck and honest work for that.
But this need not prevent us from recognizing that analysis
278 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
is no once-and-for-all "cure"; it is no more, at first, than a
more or less thorough readjustment. There is no change
that is unconditionally valid over a long period of time.
Life has always to be tackled anew. There are, of course,
extremely durable collective attitudes which permit the so-
lution of typical conflicts. A collective attitude enables the
individual to fit into society without friction, since it acts
upon him like any other condition of life. But the patient's
difficulty consists precisely in the fact that his individual
problem cannot be fitted without friction into a collective
norm; it requires the solution of an individual conflict if
the whole of his personality is to remain viable. No rational
solution can do justice to this task, and there is absolutely
no collective norm that could replace an individual solution
without loss.
The new attitude gained in the course of analysis tends
sooner or later to become inadequate in one way or an-
other, and necessarily so, because the constant flow of life
again and again demands fresh adaptation. Adaptation is
never achieved once and for all. One might certainly de-
mand of analysis that it should enable the patient to gain
new orientations in later life, too, without undue difficulty.
And experience shows that this is true up to a point. We
often find that patients who have gone through a thorough
analysis have considerably less difficulty with new adjust-
ments later on. Nevertheless, these difficulties prove to be
fairly frequent and may at times be really troublesome.
That is why even patients who have had a thorough analy-
sis often turn to their old analyst for help at some later
period. In the light of medical practice in general there is
nothing very unusual about this, but it does contradict a
certain misplaced enthusiasm on the part of the therapist as
well as the view that analysis constitutes a unique "cure."
In the last resort it is highly improbable that there could
ever be a therapy that got rid of all difficulties. Man needs
difficulties; they are necessary for health. What concerns
us here is only an excessive amount of them.
The Transcendent Function : 279
The basic question for the therapist is not how to get rid
of the momentary difficulty, but how future difficulties may
be successfully countered. The question is: what kind of
mental and moral attitude is it necessary to have towards
the disturbing influences of the unconscious, and how can it
be conveyed to the patient?
The answer obviously consists in getting rid of the sepa-
ration between conscious and unconscious. This cannot be
done by condemning the contents of the unconscious in a
one-sided way, but rather by recognizing their significance
in compensating the one-sidedness of consciousness and by
taking this significance into account. The tendencies of the
conscious and the unconscious are the two factors that to-
gether make up the transcendent function. It is called
"transcendent" because it makes the transition from one
attitude to another organically possible, without loss of the
unconscious. The constructive or synthetic method of treat-
ment presupposes insights which are at least potentially
present in the patient and can therefore be made conscious.
If the analyst knows nothing of these potentialities he can-
not help the patient to develop them either, unless analyst
and patient together devote proper scientific study to this
problem, which as a rule is out of the question.
In actual practice, therefore, the suitably trained analyst
mediates the transcendent function for the patient, i.e.,
helps him to bring conscious and unconscious together and
so arrive at a new attitude. In this function of the analyst
lies one of the many important meanings of the transfer-
ence. The patient clings by means of the transference to the
person who seems to promise him a renewal of attitude;
through it he seeks this change, which is vital to him, even
though he may not be conscious of doing so. For the pa-
tient, therefore, the analyst has the character of an indis-
pensable figure absolutely necessary for life. However in-
fantile this dependence may appear to be, it expresses an
extremely important demand which, if disappointed, often
turns to bitter hatred of the analyst. It is therefore impor-
280 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
tant to know what this demand concealed in the transfer-
ence is really aiming at; there is a tendency to understand
it in the reductive sense only, as an erotic infantile fantasy.
But that would mean taking this fantasy, which is usually
concerned with the parents, literally, as though the patient,
or rather his unconscious, still had the expectations the
child once had towards the parents. Outwardly it still is the
same expectation of the child for the help and protection
of the parents, but in the meantime the child has become
an adult, and what was normal for a child is improper in an
adult. It has become a metaphorical expression of the not
consciously realized need for help in a crisis. Historically
it is correct to explain the erotic character of the transfer-
ence in terms of the infantile eros. But in that way the
meaning and purpose of the transference are not under-
stood, and its interpretation as an infantile sexual fantasy
leads away from the real problem. The understanding of the
transference is to be sought not in its historical antecedents
but in its purpose. The one-sided, reductive explanation
becomes in the end nonsensical, especially when absolutely
nothing new comes out of it except the increased resistances
of the patient. The sense of boredom which then appears in
the analysis is simply an expression of the monotony and
poverty of ideas — not of the unconscious, as is sometimes
supposed, but of the analyst, who does not understand that
these fantasies should not be taken merely in a concretistic-
reductive sense, but rather in a constructive one. When
this is realized, the standstill is often overcome at a single
stroke.
Constructive treatment of the unconscious, that is, the
question of meaning and purpose, paves the way for the
patient's insight into that process which I call the tran-
scendent function.
It may not be superfluous, at this point, to say a few
words about the frequently heard objection that the con-
structive method is simply "suggestion." The method is
based, rather, on evaluating the symbol (i.e., dream-image
The Transcendent Function : 281
or fantasy) not semiotically, as a sign for elementary in-
stinctual processes, but symbolically in the true sense, the
word "symbol" being taken to mean the best possible ex-
pression for a complex fact not yet clearly apprehended by
consciousness. Through reductive analysis of this expres-
sion nothing is gained but a clearer view of the elements
originally composing it, and though I would not deny that
increased insight into these elements may have its advan-
tages, it nevertheless bypasses the question of purpose. Dis-
solution of the symbol at this stage of analysis is therefore
a mistake. To begin with, however, the method for working
out the complex meanings suggested by the symbol is the
same as in reductive analysis. The associations of the pa-
tient are obtained, and as a rule they are plentiful enough to
be used in the synthetic method. Here again they are evalu-
ated not semiotically but symbolically. The question we
must ask is: to what meaning do the individual associations
A, B, C point, when taken in conjunction with the manifest
dream-content?
An unmarried woman patient dreamt that someone gave
her a wonderful, richly ornamented, antique sword dug up
out of a tumulus.
ASSOCIATIONS
Her father's dagger, which he once flashed in the sun in front of
her. It made a great impression on her. Her father was in every re-
spect an energetic, strong-willed man, with an impetuous tempera-
ment, and adventurous in love affairs. A Celtic bronze sword: Pa-
tient is proud of her Celtic ancestry. The Celts are full of tempera-
ment, impetuous, passionate. The ornamentation has a mysterious
look about it, ancient tradition, runes, signs of ancient wisdom,
ancient civilizations, heritage of mankind, brought to light again
out of the grave.
ANALYTICAL INTERPRETATION
Patient has a pronounced father complex and a rich tissue of
sexual fantasies about her father, whom she lost early. She always
put herself in her mother's place, although with strong resistances
towards her father. She has never been able to accept a man like
her father and has therefore chosen weakly, neurotic men against
her will. Also in the analysis violent resistance towards the physician-
282 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
father. The dream digs up her wish for her father's "weapon." The
rest is clear, In theory, this would immediately point to a phallic
fantasy,
CONSTRUCTIVE INTERPRETATION
It is as if the patient needed such a weapon. Her father had the
weapon. He was energetic, lived accordingly, and also took upon
himself the difficulties inherent in his temperament. Therefore,
though living a passionate, exciting life he was not neurotic. This
weapon is a very ancient heritage of mankind, which lay buried
in the patient and was brought to light through excavation
(analysis). The weapon has to do with insight, with wisdom. It is a
means of attack and defence. Her father's weapon was a passionate,
unbending will, with which he made his way through life. Up till
now the patient has been the opposite in every respect. She is just on
the point of realizing that a person can also will something and
need not merely be driven, as she had always believed. The will
based on a knowledge of life and on insight is an ancient heritage
of the human race, which also is in her, but till now lay buried, for
in this respect, too, she is her father's daughter. But she had not
appreciated this till now, because her character had been that of a
perpetually whining, pampered, spoilt child. She was extremely
passive and completely given to sexual fantasies.
In this case there was no need of any supplementary
analogies on the part of the analyst. The patient's associ-
ations provided all that was necessary. It might be objected
that this treatment of the dream involves suggestion. But
this ignores the fact that a suggestion is never accepted
without an inner readiness for it, or if after great insistence
it is accepted, it is immediately lost again. A suggestion
that is accepted for any length of time always presupposes
a marked psychological readiness which is merely brought
into play by the so-called suggestion. This objection is
therefore thoughtless and credits suggestion with a magical
power it in no way possesses, otherwise suggestion therapy
would have an enormous effect and would render analytical
procedures quite superfluous. But this is far from being the
case. Furthermore, the charge of suggestion does not take
account of the fact that the patient's own associations point
to the cultural significance of the sword.
After this digression, let us return to the question of the
transcendent function. We have seen that during treatment
The Transcendent Function : 283
the transcendent function is, in a sense, an "artificial" prod-
uct because it is largely supported by the analyst. But if the
patient is to stand on his own feet he must not depend per-
manently on outside help. The interpretation of dreams
would be an ideal method for synthesizing the conscious
and unconscious data, but in practice the difficulties of
analyzing one's own dreams are too great,
We must now make clear what is required to produce the
transcendent function. First and foremost, we need the un-
conscious material. The most readily accessible expression
of unconscious processes is undoubtedly dreams. The
dream is, so to speak, a pure product of the unconscious.
The alterations which the dream undergoes in the process
of reaching consciousness, although undeniable, can be con-
sidered irrelevant, since they too derive from the uncon-
scious and are not intentional distortions. Possible modifi-
cations of the original dream-image derive from a more
superficial layer of the unconscious and therefore contain
valuable material too. They are further fantasy-products
following the general trend of the dream. The same applies
to the subsequent images and ideas which frequently occur
while dozing or rise up spontaneously on waking. Since the
dream originates in sleep, it bears all the characteristics of
an "abaisscment du niveau mental" (Janet), or of low
energy-tension: logical discontinuity, fragmentary charac-
ter, analogy formations, superficial associations of the ver-
bal, clang, or visual type, condensations, irrational expres-
sions, confusion, etc. With an increase of energy-tension,
the dreams acquire a more ordered character; they become
dramatically composed and reveal clear sense-connections,
and the valency of the associations increases.
Since the energy-tension in sleep is usually very low,
dreams, compared with conscious material, are inferior ex-
pressions of unconscious contents and are very difficult to
understand from a constructive point of view, but are usu-
ally easier to understand rcductivcly. In general, dreams are
unsuitable or difficult to make use of in developing the
284 .* The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
transcendent function, because they make too great de-
mands on the subject.
We must therefore look to other sources for the uncon-
scious material. There are, for instance, the unconscious in-
terferences in the waking state, ideas "out of the blue,"
slips, deceptions and lapses of memory, symptomatic ac-
tions, etc. This material is generally more useful for the
reductive method than for the constructive one; it is too
fragmentary and lacks continuity, which is indispensable for
a meaningful synthesis.
Another source is spontaneous fantasies. They usually
have a more composed and coherent character and often
contain much that is obviously significant. Some patients
are able to produce fantasies at any time, allowing them to
rise up freely simply by eliminating critical attention. Such
fantasies can be used, though this particular talent is none
too common. The capacity to produce free fantasies can,
however, be developed with practice. The training consists
first of all in systematic exercises for eliminating critical
attention, thus producing a vacuum in consciousness. This
encourages the emergence of any fantasies that are lying
in readiness. A prerequisite, of course, is that fantasies with
a high libido-charge are actually lying ready. This is nat-
urally not always the case. Where this is not so, special
measures are required.
Before entering upon a discussion of these, I must yield
to an uncomfortable feeling which tells me that the reader
may be asking dubiously, what really is the point of all
this? And why is it so absolutely necessary to bring up the
unconscious contents? Is it not sufficient if from time to
time they come up of their own accord and make them-
selves unpleasantly felt? Does one have to drag the uncon-
scious to the surface by force? On the contrary, should it
not be the job of analysis to empty the unconscious of fan-
tasies and in this way render it ineffective?
It may be as well to consider these misgivings in some-
what more detail, since the methods for bringing the un-
The Transcendent Function : 285
conscious to consciousness may strike the reader as novel,
unusual, and perhaps even rather weird. We must therefore
first discuss these natural objections, so that they shall not
hold us up when we begin demonstrating the methods in
question.
As we have seen, we need the unconscious contents to
supplement the conscious attitude. If the conscious attitude
were only to a slight degree "directed, " the unconscious
could flow in quite of its own accord. This is what does in
fact happen with all those people who have a low level of
conscious tension, as for instance primitives. Among primi-
tives, no special measures are required to bring up the un-
conscious. Nowhere, really, are special measures required
for this, because those people who are least aware of their
unconscious side are the most influenced by it. But they are
unconscious of what is happening. The secret participation
of the unconscious is everywhere present without our hav-
ing to search for it, but as it remains unconscious we never
really know what is going on or what to expect. What we
are searching for is a way to make conscious those contents
which are about to influence our actions, so that the secret
interference of the unconscious and its unpleasant conse-
quences can be avoided.
The reader will no doubt ask: why cannot the uncon-
scious be left to its own devices? Those who have not al-
ready had a few bad experiences in this respect will
naturally see no reason to control the unconscious. But
anyone with sufficiently bad experience will eagerly wel-
come the bare possibility of doing so. Directedness is abso-
lutely necessary for the conscious process, but as we have
seen it entails an unavoidable one-sidedness. Since the
psyche is a self-regulating system, just as the body is, the
regulating counteraction will always develop in the uncon-
scious. Were it not for the directedness of the conscious
function, the counteracting influences of the unconscious
could set in unhindered. It is just this directedness that ex-
cludes them. This, of course, does not inhibit the counter-
286 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
action, which goes on in spite of everything. Its regulating
influence, however, is eliminated by critical attention and
the directed will, because the counteraction as such seems
incompatible with the conscious direction. To this extent
the psyche of civilized man is no longer a self-regulating
system but could rather be compared to a machine whose
speed-regulation is so insensitive that it can continue to
function to the point of self-injury, while on the other hand
it is subject to the arbitrary manipulations of a one-sided
will.
Now it is a peculiarity of psychic functioning that when
the unconscious counteraction is suppressed it loses its reg-
ulating influence. It then begins to have an accelerating and
intensifying effect on the conscious process. It is as though
the counteraction had lost its regulating influence, and hence
its energy, altogether; for a condition then arises in which
not only no inhibiting counteraction takes place, but in
which its energy seems to add itself to that of the con-
scious direction. To begin with, this naturally facilitates the
execution of the conscious intentions, but because they are
unchecked, they may easily assert themselves at the cost of
the whole. For instance, when someone makes a rather
bold assertion and suppresses the counteraction, namely a
well-placed doubt, he will insist on it all the more, to his
own detriment.
The ease with which the counteraction can be eliminated
is proportional to the degree of dissociability of the psyche
and leads to loss of instinct. This is characteristic of, as well
as very necessary for, civilized man, since instincts in their
original strength can render social adaptation almost impos-
sible. It is not a real atrophy of instinct but, in most cases,
only a relatively lasting product of education, and would
never have struck such deep roots had it not served the
interests of the individual.
Apart from the everyday cases met with in practice, a
good example of the suppression of the unconscious regu-
lating influence can be found in Nietzsche's Zarathustra.
The Transcendent Function : 287
The discovery of the "higher" man, and also of the "ug-
liest" man, expresses the regulating influence, for the
"higher" men want to drag Zarathustra down to the collec-
tive sphere of average humanity as it always has been,
while the "ugliest" man is actually the personification of
the counteraction. But the roaring lion of Zarathustra's
moral conviction forces all these influences, above all the
feeling of pity, back again into the cave of the unconscious.
Thus the regulating influence is suppressed, but not the
secret counteraction of the unconscious, which from now
on becomes clearly noticeable in Nietzsche's writings. First
he seeks his adversary in Wagner, whom he cannot forgive
for Parsifal, but soon his whole wrath turns against Chris-
tianity and in particular against St. Paul, who in some ways
suffered a fate similar to Nietzsche's. As is well known,
Nietzsche's psychosis first produced an identification v/ith
the "Crucified Christ" and then with the dismembered
Dionysus. With this catastrophe the counteraction at last
broke through to the surface.
Another example is the classic case of megalomania
preserved for us in the fourth chapter of the Book of
Daniel. Nebuchadnezzar at the height of his power had a
dream which foretold disaster if he did not humble himself.
Daniel interpreted the dream quite expertly, but without
getting a hearing. Subsequent events showed that his inter-
pretation was correct, for Nebuchadnezzar, after suppress-
ing the unconscious regulating influence, fell victim to a
psychosis that contained the very counteraction he had
sought to escape: he, the lord of the earth, was degraded
to an animal.
An acquaintance of mine once told me a dream in which
he stepped out into space from the top of a mountain. I
explained to him something of the influence of the uncon-
scious and warned him against dangerous mountaineering
expeditions, for which he had a regular passion. But he
laughed at such ideas. A few months later while climbing a
mountain he actually did step off into space and was killed.
288 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
Anyone who has seen these things happen over and over
again in every conceivable shade of dramatic intensity is
bound to ponder. He becomes aware how easy it is to over-
look the regulating influences, and that he should endeav-
our to pay attention to the unconscious regulation which is
so necessary for our mental and physical health. Accord-
ingly he will try to help himself by practising self-observa-
tion and self-criticism. But mere self-observation and intel-
lectual self-analysis are entirely inadequate as a means to
establishing contact with the unconscious. Although no
human being can be spared bad experiences, everyone
shrinks from risking them, especially if he sees any way by
which they might be circumvented. Knowledge of the regu-
lating influences of the unconscious offers just such a possi-
bility and actually does render much bad experience un-
necessary. We can avoid a great many detours that are dis-
tinguished by no particular attraction but only by tiresome
conflicts. It is bad enough to make detours and painful mis-
takes in unknown and unexplored territory, but to get lost
in inhabited country on broad highways is merely exas-
perating. What, then, are the means at our disposal of
obtaining knowledge of the regulating factors?
If there is no capacity to produce fantasies freely, we
have to resort to artificial aid. The reason for invoking such
aid is generally a depressed or disturbed state of mind for
which no adequate cause can be found. Naturally the pa-
tient can give any number of rationalistic reasons — the bad
weather alone suffices as a reason. But none of them is
really satisfying as an explanation, for a causal explanation
of these states is usually satisfying only to an outsider, and
then only up to a point. The outsider is content if his causal
requirements are more or less satisfied; it is sufficient for
him to know where the thing comes from; he does not feel
the challenge which, for the patient, lies in the depression.
The patient would like to know what it is all for and how
to gain relief. In the intensity of the emotional disturbance
itself lies the value, the energy which he should have at his
The Transcendent Function : 289
disposal in order to remedy the state of reduced adaptation.
Nothing is achieved by repressing this state or devaluing it
rationally.
In order, therefore, to gain possession of the energy that
is in the wrong place, he must make the emotional state the
basis or starting point of the procedure. He must make him-
self as conscious as possible of the mood he is in, sinking
himself in it without reserve and noting down on paper all
the fantasies and other associations that come up. Fantasy
must be allowed the freest possible play, yet not in such a
manner that it leaves the orbit of its object, namely the
affect, by setting off a kind of "chain-reaction" association
process. This "free association," as Freud called it, leads
away from the object to all sorts of complexes, and one can
never be sure that they relate to the affect and are not dis-
placements which have appeared in its stead. Out of this
preoccupation with the object there comes a more or less
complete expression of the mood, which reproduces the
content of the depression in some way, either concretely or
symbolically. Since the depression was not manufactured by
the conscious mind but is an unwelcome intrusion from the
unconscious, the elaboration of the mood is, as it were, a
picture of the contents and tendencies of the unconscious
that were massed together in the depression. The whole
procedure is a kind of enrichment and clarification of the
affect, whereby the affect and its contents are brought
nearer to consciousness, becoming at the same time more
impressive and more understandable. This work by itself
can have a favourable and vitalizing influence. At all
events, it creates a new situation, since the previously un-
related affect has become a more or less clear and articulate
idea, thanks to the assistance and co-operation of the con-
scious mind. This is the beginning of the transcendent func-
tion, i.e., of the collaboration of conscious and unconscious
data.
The emotional disturbance can also be dealt with in an-
other way, not by clarifying it intellectually but by giving it
290 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
visible shape. Patients who possess some talent for drawing
or painting can give expression to their mood by means of
a picture. It is not important for the picture to be techni-
cally or aesthetically satisfying, but merely for the fantasy
to have free play and for the whole thing to be done as well
as possible. In principle this procedure agrees with the one
first described. Here too a product is created which is influ-
enced by both conscious and unconscious, embodying the
striving of the unconscious for the light and the striving of
the conscious for substance.
Often, however, we find cases where there is no tangible
mood or depression at all, but just a general, dull discon-
tent, a feeling of resistance to everything, a sort of boredom
or vague disgust, an indefinable but excruciating emptiness.
In these cases no definite starting point exists — it would
first have to be created. Here a special introversion of libido
is necessary, supported perhaps by favourable external con-
ditions, such as complete rest, especially at night, when the
libido has in any case a tendency to introversion. (" Tis
night: now do all fountains speak louder. And my soul also
is a bubbling fountain." 2 )
Critical attention must be eliminated. Visual types should
concentrate on the expectation that an inner image will be
produced. As a rule such a fantasy-picture will actually
appear — perhaps hypnagogically — and should be carefully
observed and noted down in writing. Audio-verbal types
usually hear inner words, perhaps mere fragments of ap-
parently meaningless sentences to begin with, which how-
ever should be carefully noted down too. Others at such
times simply hear their "other" voice. There are, indeed,
not a few people who are well aware that they possess a
sort of inner critic or judge who immediately comments on
everything they say or do. Insane people hear this voice di-
rectly as auditory hallucinations. But normal people too,
if their inner life is fairly well developed, are able to repro-
2 [Nietzsche, Thus Spake Zarathiistra, XXXI; Common translation,
p. 156.— Editors of The Collected Works.]
The Transcendent Function : 291
duce this inaudible voice without difficulty, though as it is
notoriously irritating and refractory it is almost always re-
pressed. Such persons have little difficulty in procuring the
unconscious material and thus laying the foundation of the
transcendent function.
There are others, again, who neither see nor hear any-
thing inside themselves, but whose hands have the knack
of giving expression to the contents of the unconscious.
Such people can profitably work with plastic materials.
Those who are able to express the unconscious by means of
bodily movements are rather rare. The disadvantage that
movements cannot easily be fixed in the mind must be met
by making careful drawings of the movements afterwards,
so that they shall not be lost to the memory. Still rarer, but
equally valuable, is automatic writing, direct or with the
planchette. This, too, yields useful results.
We now come to the next question: what is to be done
with the material obtained in one of the manners described.
To this question there is no a priori answer; it is only when
the conscious mind confronts the products of the uncon-
scious that a provisional reaction will ensue which deter-
mines the subsequent procedure. Practical experience alone
can give us a clue. So far as my experience goes, there ap-
pear to be two main tendencies. One is the way of creative
formulation, the other the way of understanding.
Where the principle of creative formulation predomi-
nates, the material is continually varied and increased until
a kind of condensation of motifs into more or less stereo-
typed symbols takes place. These stimulate the creative fan-
tasy and serve chiefly as aesthetic motifs. This tendency
leads to the aesthetic problem of artistic formulation.
Where, on the other hand, the principle of understand-
ing predominates, the aesthetic aspect is oi relatively little
interest and may occasionally even be felt as a hindrance.
Instead, there is an intensive struggle to understand the
meaning of the unconscious product.
Whereas aesthetic formulation tends to concentrate on
292 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
the formal aspect of the motif, an intuitive understanding
often tries to catch the meaning from barely adequate hints
in the material, without considering those elements which
would come to light in a more careful formulation.
Neither of these tendencies can be brought about by an
arbitrary effort of will; they are far more the result of the
peculiar make-up of the individual personality. Both have
their typical dangers and may lead one astray. The danger
of the aesthetic tendency is overvaluation of the formal or
"artistic" worth of the fantasy-productions; the libido is
diverted from the real goal of the transcendent function
and sidetracked into purely aesthetic problems of artistic
expression. The danger of wanting to understand the mean-
ing is overvaluation of the content, which is subjected to
intellectual analysis and interpretation, so that the essen-
tially symbolic character of the product is lost. Up to a
point these bypaths must be followed in order to satisfy
aesthetic or intellectual requirements, whichever predomi-
nate in the individual case. But the danger of both these
bypaths is worth stressing, for, after a certain point of
psychic development has been reached, the products of the
unconscious are greatly overvalued precisely because they
were boundlessly undervalued before. This undervaluation
is one of the greatest obstacles in formulating the uncon-
scious material. It reveals the collective standards by which
anything individual is judged: nothing is considered good
or beautiful that does not fit into the collective schema,
though it is true that contemporary art is beginning to make
compensatory efforts in this respect. What is lacking is not
the collective recognition of the individual product but its
subjective appreciation, the understanding of its meaning
and value for the subject. This feeling of inferiority for
one's own product is of course not the rule everywhere.
Sometimes we find the exact opposite: a naive and uncriti-
cal overvaluation coupled with the demand for collective
recognition once the initial feeling of inferiority has been
overcome. Conversely, an initial overvaluation can easily
The Transcendent Function : 293
turn into depreciatory scepticism. These erroneous judg-
ments are due to the individual's unconsciousness and lack
of self-reliance: either he is able to judge only by collective
standards, or else, owing to ego-inflation, he loses his ca-
pacity for judgment altogether.
One tendency seems to be the regulating principle of the
other; both are bound together in a compensatory relation-
ship. Experience bears out this formula. So far as it is possi-
ble at this stage to draw more general conclusions, we
could say that aesthetic formulation needs understanding of
the meaning, and understanding needs aesthetic formula-
tion. The two supplement each other to form the tran-
scendent function.
The first steps along both paths follow the same princi-
ple: consciousness puts its media of expression at the dis-
posal of the unconscious content. It must not do more than
this at first, so as not to exert undue influence. In giving
the content form, the lead must be left as far as possible to
the chance ideas and associations thrown up by the uncon-
scious. This is naturally something of a setback for the
conscious standpoint and is often felt as painful. It is not
difficult to understand this when we remember how the
contents of the unconscious usually present themselves: as
things which are too weak by nature to cross the threshold,
or as incompatible elements that were repressed for a va-
riety of reasons. Mostly they are unwelcome, unexpected,
irrational contents, disregard or repression of which seems
altogether understandable. Only a small part of them has
any unusual value, either from the collective or from the
subjective standpoint. But contents that are collectively
valueless may be exceedingly valuable when seen from the
standpoint of the individual. This fact expresses itself in
their affective tone, no matter whether the subject feels it
as negative or positive. Society, too, is divided in its accept-
ance of new and unknown ideas which obtrude their emo-
tionality. The purpose of the initial procedure is to discover
the feeling-toned contents, for in these cases we are always
294 •' The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
dealing with situations where the one-sidedness of con-
sciousness meets with the resistance of the instinctual
sphere,
The two ways do not divide until the aesthetic problem
becomes decisive for the one type of person and the intel-
lectual-moral problem for the other. The ideal case would
be if these two aspects could exist side by side or rhythmi-
cally succeed each other; that is, if there were an alterna-
tion of creation and understanding. It hardly seems possible
for the one to exist without the other, though it sometimes
does happen in practice: the creative urge seizes possession
of the object at the cost of its meaning, or the urge to
understand overrides the necessity of giving it form. The
unconscious contents want first of all to be seen clearly,
which can only be done by giving them shape, and to be
judged only when everything they have to say is tangibly
present. It was for this reason that Freud got the dream-
contents, as it were, to express themselves in the form of
"free associations" before he began interpreting them.
It does not suffice in all cases to elucidate only the con-
ceptual context of a dream-content. Often it is necessary to
clarify a vague content by giving it a visible form. This can
be done by drawing, painting, or modelling. Often the
hands know how to solve a riddle with which the intellect
has wrestled in vain. By shaping it, one goes on dreaming
the dream in greater detail in the waking state, and the
initially incomprehensible, isolated event is integrated into
the sphere of the total personality, even though it remains
at first unconscious to the subject. Aesthetic formulation
leaves it at that and gives up any idea of discovering a
meaning. This sometimes leads patients to fancy themselves
artists — misunderstood ones, naturally. The desire to under-
stand, if it dispenses with careful formulation, starts with
the chance idea or association and therefore lacks an ade-
quate basis. It has better prospects of success if it begins
only with the formulated product. The less the initial mate-
rial is shaped and developed, the greater is the danger that
The Transcendent Function : 295
understanding will be governed not by the empirical facts
but by theoretical and moral considerations. The kind of
understanding with which we are concerned at this stage
consists in a reconstruction of the meaning that seems to
be immanent in the original "chance" idea.
It is evident that such a procedure can legitimately take
place only when there is a sufficient motive for it. Equally,
the lead can be left to the unconscious only if it already
contains the will to lead. This naturally happens only when
the conscious mind finds itself in a critical situation. Once
the unconscious content has been given form and the
meaning of the formulation is understood, the question
arises as to how the ego will relate to this position, and
how the ego and the unconscious are to come to terms. This
is the second and more important stage of the procedure,
the bringing together of opposites for the production of a
third: the transcendent function. At this stage it is no
longer the unconscious that takes the lead, but the ego.
We shall not define the individual ego here, but shall
leave it in its banal reality as that continuous centre of
consciousness whose presence has made itself felt since
the days of childhood. It is confronted with a psychic
product that owes its existence mainly to an unconscious
process and is therefore in some degree opposed to the ego
and its tendencies.
This standpoint is essential in coming to terms with the
unconscious. The position of the ego must be maintained
as being of equal value to the counter-position of the un-
conscious, and vice versa. This amounts to a very necessary
warning: for just as the conscious mind of civilized man
has a restrictive effect on the unconscious, so the rediscov-
ered unconscious often has a really dangerous effect on the
ego. In the same way that the ego suppressed the uncon-
scious before, a liberated unconscious can thrust the ego
aside and overwhelm it. There is a danger of the ego losing
its head, so to speak, that it will not be able to defend itself
against the pressure of affective factors — a situation often
2g6 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
encountered at the beginning of schizophrenia. This danger
would not exist, or would not be so acute, if the process of
having it out with the unconscious could somehow divest
the affects of their dynamism. And this is what does in fact
happen when the counter-position is aestheticized or intel-
lectualized. But the confrontation with the unconscious
must be a many-sided one, for the transcendent function is
not a partial process running a conditioned course; it is a
total and integral event in which all aspects are, or should
be, included. The affect must therefore be deployed in its
full strength. Aestheticization and intellectualization are
excellent weapons against dangerous affects, but they
should be used only when there is a vital threat, and not for
the purpose of avoiding a necessary task.
Thanks to the fundamental insight of Freud, we know
that emotional factors must be given full consideration in
the treatment of the neuroses. The personality as a whole
must be taken seriously into account, and this applies to
both parties, the patient as well as the analyst. How far
the latter may hide behind the shield of theory remains a
delicate question, to be left to his discretion. At all events,
the treatment of neurosis is not a kind of psychological
water-cure, but a renewal of the personality, working in
every direction and penetrating every sphere of life. Com-
ing to terms with the counter-position is a serious matter
on which sometimes a very great deal depends. Taking the
other side seriously is an essential prerequisite of the proc-
ess, for only in that way can the regulating factors exert an
influence on our actions. Taking it seriously does not mean
taking it literally, but it does mean giving the unconscious
credit, so that it has a chance to co-operate with conscious-
ness instead of automatically disturbing it.
Thus, in coming to terms with the unconscious, not only
is the standpoint of the ego justified, but the unconscious
is granted the same authority. The ego takes the lead, but
the unconscious must be allowed to have its say too —
audiatur et altera pars.
The Transcendent Function : 2gj
The way this can be done is best shown by those cases in
which the "other" voice is more or less distinctly heard. For
such people it is technically very simple to note down the
"other 1 ' voice in writing and to answer its statements from
the standpoint of the ego. It is exactly as if a dialogue were
taking place between two human beings with equal rights,
each of whom gives the other credit for a valid argument
and considers it worth-while to modify the conflicting stand-
points by means of thorough comparison and discussion or
else to distinguish them clearly from one another. Since the
way to agreement seldom stands open, in most cases a long
conflict will have to be borne, demanding sacrifices from
both sides. Such a rapprochement could just as well take
place between patient and analyst, the role of devil's advo-
cate easily falling to the latter.
The present day shows with appalling clarity how little
able people are to let the other man's argument count, al-
though this capacity is a fundamental and indispensable
condition for any human community. Everyone who pro-
poses to come to terms with himself must reckon with this
basic problem. For, to the degree that he does not admit the
validity of the other person, he denies the "other" within
himself the right to exist — and vice versa. The capacity for
inner dialogue is a touchstone for outer objectivity.
Simple as the process of coming to terms may be in the
case of the inner dialogue, it is undoubtedly more com-
plicated in other cases where only visual products are avail-
able, speaking a language which is eloquent enough for
one who understands it, but which seems like deaf-and-
dumb language to one who does not. Faced with such prod-
ucts, the ego must seize the initiative and ask: "How am I
affected by this sign?" : * This Faustian question can call
forth an illuminating answer. The more direct and natural
the answer is, the more valuable it will be, for directness
and naturalness guarantee a more or less total reaction. It
a [Cf. Faust, Part I, translated by Philip Wayne (Harmondsworth,
England, 1949), P- 46. — Editors or The Collected H'oiks.]
2g8 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
is not absolutely necessary for the process of confrontation
itself to become conscious in every detail. Very often a
total reaction does not have at its disposal those theoretical
assumptions, views, and concepts which would make clear
apprehension possible. In such cases one must be content
with the wordless but suggestive feelings which appear in
their stead and are more valuable than clever talk.
The shuttling to and fro of arguments and affects repre-
sents the transcendent function of opposites. The confronta-
tion of the two positions generates a tension charged with
energy and creates a living, third thing — not a logical still-
birth in accordance with the principle tertlum non datur
but a movement out of the suspension between opposites, a
living birth that leads to a new level of being, a new situ-
ation. The transcendent function manifests itself as a qual-
ity of conjoined opposites. So long as these are kept apart
— naturally for the purpose of avoiding conflict — they do
not function and remain inert.
In whatever form the opposites appear in the individual,
at bottom it is always a matter of a consciousness lost and
obstinately stuck in one-sidedness, confronted with the
image of instinctive wholeness and freedom. This presents
a picture of the anthropoid and archaic man with, on the
one hand, his supposedly uninhibited world of instinct and,
on the other, his often misunderstood world of spiritual
ideas, who, compensating and correcting our one-sidedness,
emerges from the darkness and shows us how and where we
have deviated from the basic pattern and crippled ourselves
psychically.
I must content myself here with a description of the out-
ward forms and possibilities of the transcendent function.
Another task of greater importance would be the descrip-
tion o\ its contents. There is already a mass of material on
this subject, but not all the difficulties in the way of exposi-
tion have yet been overcome. A number of preparatory
studies are still needed before the conceptual foundation
is laid which would enable us to give a clear and intelligible
The Transcendent Function : 299
account of the contents of the transcendent function. I
have unfortunately had the experience that the scientific
public are not everywhere in a position to follow a purely
psychological argument, since they either take it too per-
sonally or are bedevilled by philosophical or intellectual
prejudices. This renders any meaningful appreciation of the
psychological factors quite impossible. If people take it
personally their judgment is always subjective, and they
declare everything to be impossible which seems not to
apply in their case or which they prefer not to acknowledge.
They are quite incapable of realizing that what is valid for
them may not be valid at all for another person with a
different psychology. We are still very far from possessing
a general valid scheme of explanation in all cases.
One of the greatest obstacles to psychological under-
standing is the inquisitive desire to know whether the psy-
chological factor adduced is "true" or "correct." If the de-
scription of it is not erroneous or false, then the factor is
valid in itself and proves its validity by its very existence.
One might just as well ask if the duck-billed platypus is a
"true" or "correct" invention of the Creator's will. Equally
childish is the prejudice against the role which mythological
assumptions play in the life of the psyche. Since they are
not "true," it is argued, they have no place in a scientific
explanation. But mythologems exist, even though their
statements do not coincide with our incommensurable idea
of "truth."
As the process of coming to terms with the counter-
position has a total character, nothing is excluded. Every-
thing takes part in the discussion, even if only fragments
become conscious. Consciousness is continually widened
through the confrontation with previously unconscious con-
tents, or — to be more accurate — could be widened if it
took the trouble to integrate them. That is naturally not
always the case. Even if there is sufficient intelligence to
understand the procedure, there may yet be a lack of
courage and self-confidence, or one is too lazy, mentally
300 : The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche
and morally, or too cowardly, to make an effort. But where
the necessary premises exist, the transcendent function not
only forms a valuable addition to psychotherapeutic treat-
ment, but gives the patient the inestimable advantage of
assisting the analyst on his own resources, and of breaking
a dependence which is often felt as humiliating. It is a way
of attaining liberation by one's own efforts and of finding
the courage to be oneself.
On the Relation of Analytical
Psychology to Poetry 1
In spite of its difficulty, the task of discussing the relation
of analytical psychology to poetry affords me a welcome
opportunity to define my views on the much debated ques-
tion of the relations between psychology and art in general.
Although the two things cannot be compared, the close con-
nections which undoubtedly exist between them call for in-
vestigation. These connections arise from the fact that the
practice of art is a psychological activity and, as such, can
be approached from a psychological angle. Considered in
this light, art, like any other human activity deriving from
psychic motives, is a proper subject for psychology. This
statement, however, involves a very definite limitation of
1 From The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature. Collected Works,
Vol. 15, pars. 97-132. [A lecture delivered to the Society for German
Language and Literature, Zurich, May, 1922. First published as
*'Ubcr die Bezichungcn dcr analytischen Psychologic zum dichteri-
schen Kunslwcrk," Wissen und Leben (Zurich), XV: 19-20 (Sept.,
1922); reprinted in Seelenprobleme der Cegenwart (Zurich, 193');
translated by C. F. and H. G. Bayncs, as "On the Relation of
Analytical Psychology to Poetic Ail," British Journal of Malical
Psychology (London), 111: 3 (1925), reprinted in Contributions to
Analytical Psychology (London and New York, 1928). — Lditors
of The Collected Woiks.]
301
302 : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature
the psychological viewpoint when we come to apply it in
practice. Only that aspect of art which consists in the proc-
ess of artistic creation can be a subject for psychological
study, but not that which constitutes its essential nature.
The question of what art is in itself can never be answered
by the psychologist, but must be approached from the side
of aesthetics.
A similar distinction must be made in the realm of reli-
gion. A psychological approach is permissible only in regard
to the emotions and symbols which constitute the phe-
nomenology of religion, but which do not touch upon its
essential nature. If the essence of religion and art could be
explained, then both of them would become mere subdivi-
sions of psychology. This is not to say that such violations
of their nature have not been attempted. But those who are
guilty of them obviously forget that a similar fate might
easily befall psychology, since its intrinsic value and specific
quality would be destroyed if it were regarded as a mere
activity of the brain, and were relegated along with the
endocrine functions to a subdivision of physiology. This
too, as we know, has been attempted.
Art by its very nature is not science, and science by its
very nature is not art; both these spheres of the mind have
something in reserve that is peculiar to them and can be
explained only in its own terms. Hence when we speak of
the relation of psychology to art, we shall treat only of that
aspect of art which can be submitted to psychological scru-
tiny without violating its nature. Whatever the psychologist
has to say about art will be confined to the process of artis-
tic creation and has nothing to do with its innermost es-
sence. He can no more explain this than the intellect can
describe or even understand the nature of feeling. Indeed,
art and science would not exist as separate entities at all if
the fundamental difference between them had not long since
forced itself on the mind. The fact that artistic, scientific,
and religious propensities still slumber peacefully together
in the small child, or that with primitives the beginnings of
Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry : 303
art, science, and religion coalesce in the undifferentiated
chaos of the magical mentality, or that no trace of "mind"
can be found in the natural instincts of animals — all this
does nothing to prove the existence of a unifying principle
which alone would justify a reduction of the one to the
other. For if we go so far back into the history of the mind
that the distinctions between its various fields of activity
become altogether invisible, we do not reach an underlying
principle of their unity, but merely an earlier, undifferenti-
ated state in which no separate activities yet exist. But the
elementary state is not an explanatory principle that would
allow us to draw conclusions as to the nature of later, more
highly developed states, even though they must necessarily
derive from it. A scientific attitude will always tend to over-
look the peculiar nature of these more differentiated states
in favour of their causal derivation, and will endeavour to
subordinate them to a general but more elementary prin-
ciple.
These theoretical reflections seem to me very much in
place today, when we so often find that works of art, and
particularly poetry, are interpreted precisely in this manner,
by reducing them to more elementary states. Though the
material he works with and its individual treatment can
easily be traced back to the poet's personal relations with
his parents, this does not enable us to understand his poetry.
The same reduction can be made in all sorts of other fields,
and not least in the case of pathological disturbances. Neu-
roses and psychoses are likewise reducible to infantile rela-
tions with the parents, and so are a man's good and bad
habits, his beliefs, peculiarities, passions, interests, and so
forth. It can hardly be supposed that all these very differ-
ent things must have exactly the same explanation, for
otherwise we would be driven to the conclusion that they
actually are the same thing. If a work of art is explained
in the same way as a neurosis, then either the work of art
is a neurosis or a neurosis is a work of art. This explanation
is all very well as a play on words, but sound common
304 : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature
sense rebels against putting a work of art on the same level
as a neurosis. An analyst might, in an extreme case, view a
neurosis as a work of art through the lens of his profes-
sional bias, but it would never occur to an intelligent lay-
man to mistake a pathological phenomenon for art, in spite
of the undeniable fact that a work of art arises from much
the same psychological conditions as a neurosis. This is
only natural, because certain of these conditions are present
in every individual and, owing to the relative constancy of
the human environment, are constantly the same, whether
in the case of a nervous intellectual, a poet, or a normal
human being. All have had parents, all have a father- or a
mother-complex, all know about sex and therefore have
certain common and typical human difficulties. One poet
may be influenced more by his relation to his father, an-
other by the tie to his mother, while a third shows unmis-
takable traces of sexual repression in his poetry. Since all
this can be said equally well not only of every neurotic but
of every normal human being, nothing specific is gained for
the judgment of a work of art. At most our knowledge of its
psychological antecedents will have been broadened and
deepened.
The school of medical psychology inaugurated by Freud
has undoubtedly encouraged the literary historian to bring
certain peculiarities of a work of art into relation with the
intimate, personal life of the poet. But this is nothing new
in principle, for it has long been known that the scientific
treatment of art will reveal the personal threads that the
artist, intentionally or unintentionally, has woven into his
work. The Freudian approach may, however, make possible
a more exhaustive demonstration of the influences that
reach back into earliest childhood and play their part in
artistic creation. To this extent the psychoanalysis of art
differs in no essential from the subtle psychological nuances
of a penetrating literary analysis. The difference is at most
a question of degree, though we may occasionally be sur-
prised by indiscreet references to things which a rather
Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry : 30s
more delicate touch might have passed over if only for rea-
sons of tact. This lack of delicacy seems to be a professional
peculiarity of the medical psychologist, and the temptation
to draw daring conclusions easily leads to flagrant abuses.
A slight whiff of scandal often lends spice to a biography,
but a little more becomes a nasty inquisitiveness — bad taste
masquerading as science. Our interest is insidiously de-
flected from the work of art and gets lost in the labyrinth
of psychic determinants, the poet becomes a clinical case
and, very likely, yet another addition to the curiosa of psy-
chopathia sexualis. But this means that the psychoanalysis
of art has turned aside from its proper objective and strayed
into a province that is as broad as mankind, that is not in
the least specific of the artist and has even less relevance
to his art.
This kind of analysis brings the work of art into the
sphere of general human psychology, where many other
things besides art have their origin. To explain art in these
terms is just as great a platitude as the statement that
"every artist is a narcissist." Every man who pursues his
own goal is a "narcissist" — though one wonders how per-
missible it is to give such wide currency to a term spe-
cifically coined for the pathology of neurosis. The state-
ment therefore amounts to nothing; it merely elicits the
faint surprise of a bon mot. Since this kind of analysis is
in no way concerned with the work of art itself, but strives
like a mole to bury itself in the dirt as speedily as possible,
it always ends up in the common earth that unites all man-
kind. Hence its explanations have the same tedious mo-
notony as the recitals which one daily hears in the consult-
ing-room.
The reductive method of Freud is a purely medical one,
and the treatment is directed at a pathological or other-
wise unsuitable formation which has taken the place of the
normal functioning. It must therefore be broken down, and
the way cleared for healthy adaptation. In this case, reduc-
tion to the common human foundation is altogether appro-
306 : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature
priate. But when applied to a work of art it leads to the
results I have described. It strips the work of art of its
shimmering robes and exposes the nakedness and drabness
of Homo sapiens, to which species the poet and artist also
belong. The golden gleam of artistic creation — the original
object of discussion — is extinguished as soon as we apply
to it the same corrosive method which we use in analyzing
the fantasies of hysteria. The results are no doubt very in-
teresting and may perhaps have the same kind of scientific
value as, for instance, a post-mortem examination of the
brain of Nietzsche, which might conceivably show us the
particular atypical form of paralysis from which he died.
But what would this have to do with Zarathustral What-
ever its subterranean background may have been, is it not
a whole world in itself, beyond the human, all-too-human
imperfections, beyond the world of migraine and cerebral
atrophy?
I have spoken of Freud's reductive method but have not
stated in what that method consists. It is essentially a medi-
cal technique for investigating morbid psychic phenomena,
and it is solely concerned with the ways and means of get-
ting round or peering through the foreground of conscious-
ness in order to reach the psychic background, or the un-
conscious. It is based on the assumption that the neurotic
patient represses certain psychic contents because they are
morally incompatible with his conscious values. It follows
that the repressed contents must have correspondingly
negative traits — infantile-sexual, obscene, or even criminal
— which make them unacceptable to consciousness. Since
no man is perfect, everyone must possess such a back-
ground whether he admits it or not. Hence it can always be
exposed if only one uses the technique of interpretation
worked out by Freud.
In the short space of a lecture I cannot, of course, enter
into the details of the technique. A few hints must suffice.
The unconscious background does not remain inactive, but
betrays itself by its characteristic effects on the contents of
Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry : 307
consciousness. For example, it produces fantasies of a pe-
culiar nature, which can easily be interpreted as sexual
images. Or it produces characteristic disturbances of the
conscious processes, which again can be reduced to re-
pressed contents. A very important source for knowledge
of the unconscious contents is provided by dreams, since
these are direct products of the activity of the unconscious.
The essential thing in Freud's reductive method is to collect
all the clues pointing to the unconscious background, and
then, through the analysis and interpretation of this mate-
rial, to reconstruct the elementary instinctual processes.
Those conscious contents which give us a clue to the uncon-
scious background are incorrectly called symbols by Freud.
They are not true symbols, however, since according to his
theory they have merely the role of signs or symptoms of
the subliminal processes. The true symbol differs essentially
from this, and should be understood as an expression of an
intuitive idea that cannot yet be formulated in any other or
better way. When Plato, for instance, puts the whole prob-
lem of the theory of knowledge in his parable of the cave,
or when Christ expresses the idea of the Kingdom of
Heaven in parables, these are genuine and true symbols,
that is, attempts to express something for which no verbal
concept yet exists. If we were to interpret Plato's metaphor
in Freudian terms we would naturally arrive at the uterus,
and would have proved that even a mind like Plato's was
still struck on a primitive level of infantile sexuality. But
we would have completely overlooked what Plato actually
created out of the primitive determinants of his philosophi-
cal ideas; we would have missed the essential point and
merely discovered that he had infantile-sexual fantasies like
any other mortal. Such a discovery could be oi value only
for a man who regarded Plato as superhuman, and who
can now state with satisfaction that Plato too was an ordi-
nary human being. But who would want to regard Plato as
a god? Surely only one who is dominated by infantile fan-
tasies and therefore possesses a neurotic mental it), lor
jo8 : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature
him the reduction to common human truths is salutary on
medical grounds, but this would have nothing whatever to
do with the meaning of Plato's parable.
I have purposely dwelt on the application of medical
psychoanalysis to works of art because I want to empha-
size that the psychoanalytic method is at the same time an
essential part of the Freudian doctrine. Freud himself by
his rigid dogmatism has ensured that the method and the
doctrine — in themselves two very different things — are re-
garded by the public as identical. Yet the method may be
employed with beneficial results in medical cases without
at the same time exalting it into a doctrine. And against this
doctrine we are bound to raise vigorous objections. The
assumptions it rests on are quite arbitrary. For example,
neuroses are by no means exclusively caused by sexual
repression, and the same holds true for psychoses. There is
no foundation for saying that dreams merely contain re-
pressed wishes whose moral incompatibility requires them
to be disguised by a hypothetical dream-censor. The Freud-
ian technique of interpretation, so far as it remains under
the influence of its own one-sided and therefore erroneous
hypotheses, displays a quite obvious bias.
In order to do justice to a work of art, analytical psy-
chology must rid itself entirely of medical prejudice; for a
work of art is not a disease, and consequently requires a
different approach from ihe medical one. A doctor natu-
rally has to seek out the causes of a disease in order to pull
it up by the roots, but just as naturally the psychologist
must adopt exactly the opposite attitude towards a work of
art. Instead of investigating its typically human determi-
nants, he will inquire first of all into its meaning, and will
concern himself with its determinants only in so far as
they enable him to understand it more fully. Personal
causes have as much or as little to do with a work of art
as the soil with the plant that springs from it. We can cer-
tainly learn to understand some of the plant's peculiarities
by getting to know its habitat, and for the botanist this is an
Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry : 309
important part of his equipment. But nobody will maintain
that everything essential has then been discovered about the
plant itself. The personal orientation which the doctor needs
when confronted with the question of aetiology in medicine
is quite out of place in dealing with a work of art, just
because a work of art is not a human bein<?, but is some-
thing supra-personal. It is a thing and not a personality;
hence it cannot be judged by personal criteria. Indeed, the
special significance of a true work of art resides in the fact
that it has escaped from the limitations of the personal and
has soared beyond the personal concerns of its creator.
I must confess from my own experience that it is not at
all easy for a doctor to lay aside his professional bias when
considering a work of art and look at it with a mind cleared
of the current biological causality. But I have come to learn
that although a psychology with a purely biological orienta-
tion can explain a good deal about man in general, it can-
not be applied to a work of art and still less to man as cre-
ator. A purely causalistic psychology is only able to reduce
every human individual to a member of the species Homo
sapiens, since its range is limited to what is transmitted by
heredity or derived from other sources. But a work of art
is not transmitted or derived — it is a creative reorganization
of those very conditions to which a causalistic psychology
must always reduce it. The plant is not a mere product of
the soil; it is a living, self-contained process which in es-
sence has nothing to do with the character of the soil. In
the same way, the meaning and individual quality of a work
of art inhere within it and not in its extrinsic determinants.
One might almost describe it as a living being that uses man
only as a nutrient medium, employing his capacities accord-
ing to its own laws and shaping itself to the fulfilment of its
own creative purpose.
But here I am anticipating somewhat, for I have in mind
a particular type of art which I still have to introduce. Not
every work o( art originates in the way 1 have just de-
scribed. There arc literary works, prose as well as poetry,
j io : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature
that spring wholly from the author's intention to produce
a particular result. He submits his material to a definite
treatment with a definite aim in view; he adds to it and sub-
tracts from it, emphasizing one effect, toning down an-
other, laying on a touch of colour here, another there, all
the time carefully considering the over-all result and paying
strict attention to the laws of form and style. He exercises
the keenest judgment and chooses his words with complete
freedom. His material is entirely subordinated to his artis-
tic purpose; he wants to express this and nothing else. He is
wholly at one with the creative process, no matter whether
he has deliberately made himself its spearhead, as it were,
or whether it has made him its instrument so completely
that he has lost all consciousness of this fact. In either case,
the artist is so identified with his work that his intentions
and his faculties are indistinguishable from the act of cre-
ation itself. There is no need, I think, to give examples of
this from the history of literature or from the testimony of
the artists themselves.
Nor need I cite examples of the other class of works
which flow more or less complete and perfect from the au-
thor's pen. They come as it were fully arrayed into the
world, as Pallas Athene sprang from the head of Zeus.
These works positively force themselves upon the author;
his hand is seized, his pen writes things that his mind con-
templates with amazement. The work brings with it its own
form; anything he wants to add is rejected, and what he
himself would like to reject is thrust back at him. While his
conscious mind stands amazed and empty before this phe-
nomenon, he is overwhelmed by a flood of thoughts and
images which he never intended to create and which his
own will could never have brought into being. Yet in spite
of himself he is forced to admit that it is his own self speak-
ing, his own inner nature revealing itself and uttering things
which he would never have entrusted to his tongue. He
can only obey the apparently alien impulse within him and
follow where it leads, sensing that his work is greater than
Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry : 311
himself, and wields a power which is not his and which he
cannot command. Here the artist is not identical with the
process of creation; he is aware that he is subordinate to
his work or stands outside it, as though he were a second
person; or as though a person other than himself had fallen
within the magic circle of an alien will.
So when we discuss the psychology of art, we must bear
in mind these two entirely different modes of creation, for
much that is of the greatest importance in judging a work
of art depends on this distinction. It is one that had been
sensed earlier by Schiller, who as we know attempted to
classify it in his concept of the sentimental and the naive.
The psychologist would call "sentimental" art introverted
and the "naive" kind extraverted. The introverted attitude
is characterized by the subject's assertion of his conscious
intentions and aims against the demands of the object,
whereas the extraverted attitude is characterized by the sub-
ject's subordination to the demands which the object makes
upon him. In my view, Schiller's plays and most of his
poems give one a good idea of the introverted attitude: the
material is mastered by the conscious intentions of the
poet. The extraverted attitude is illustrated by the second
part of Faust: here the material is distinguished by its re-
fractoriness. A still more striking example is Nietzsche's
Zarathustra, where the author himself observed how "one
became two."
From what I have said, it will be apparent that a shift of
psychological standpoint has taken place as soon as one
speaks not of the poet as a person but of the creative proc-
ess that moves him. When the focus of interest shifts to the
latter, the poet comes into the picture only as a reacting
subject. This is immediately evident in our second category
of works, where the consciousness of the poet is not identi-
cal with the creative process. But in works of the first cate-
gory the opposite appears to hold true. Here the poet ap-
pears to be the creative process itself, and to create of his
own free will without the slightest feeling of compulsion.
$12 : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature
He may even be fully convinced of his freedom of action
and refuse to admit that his work could be anything else
than the expression of his will and ability.
Here we are faced with a question which we cannot
answer from the testimony of the poets themselves. It is
really a scientific problem that psychology alone can solve.
As I hinted earlier, it might well be that the poet, while
apparently creating out of himself and producing what he
consciously intends, is nevertheless so carried away by the
creative impulre that he is no longer aware of an "alien"
will, just as the other type of poet is no longer aware of his
own will speaKing to him in the apparently "alien" inspira-
tion, although this is manifestly the voice of his own self.
The poet's conviction that he is creating in absolute free-
dom would then be an illusion: he fancies he is swimming,
but in reality an unseen current sweeps him along.
This is not by any means an academic question, but is
supported by the evidence of analytical psychology. Re-
searches have shown that there are all sorts of ways in
which the conscious mind is not only influenced by the un-
conscious but actually guided by it. Yet is there any evi-
dence for the supposition that a poet, despite his self-
awareness, may be taken captive by his work? The proof
may be of two kinds, direct or indirect. Direct propf would
be afforded by a poet who thinks he knows what he is say-
ing but actually says more than he is aware of. Such cases
are not uncommon. Indirect proof would be found in cases
where behind the apparent free will of the poet there stands
a higher imperative that renews its peremptory demands as
soon as the poet voluntarily gives up his creative activity,
or that produces psychic complications whenever his work
has to be broken off against his will.
Analysis of artists consistently shows not only the
strength of the creative impulse arising from the uncon-
scious, but also its capricious and wilful character. The
biographies of great artists make it abundantly clear that
the creative urge is often so imperious that it battens on
Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry : 313
their humanity and yokes everything to the service of the
work, even at the cost of health and ordinary human happi-
ness. The unborn work in the psyche of the artist is a force
of nature that achieves its end either with tyrannical might
or with the subtle cunning of nature herself, quite regard-
less of the personal fate of the man who is its vehicle. The
creative urge lives and grows in him like a tree in the earth
from which it draws its nourishment. We would do well,
therefore, to think of the creative process as a living thing
implanted in the human psyche. In the language of analyti-
cal psychology this living thing is an autonomous complex.
It is a split-off portion of the psyche, which leads a life of
its own outside the hierarchy of consciousness. Depending
on its energy charge, it may appear either as a mere dis-
turbance of conscious activities or as a supraordinate au-
thority which can harness the ego to its purpose. Accord-
ingly, the poet who identifies with the creative process
would be one who acquiesces from the start when the un-
conscious imperative begins to function. But the other poet,
who feels the creative force as something alien, is one who
for various reasons cannot acquiesce and is thus caught un-
awares.
It might be expected that this difference in its origins
would be perceptible in a work of art. For in the one case
it is a conscious product shaped and designed to have the
effect intended. But in the other we are dealing with an
event originating in unconscious nature; with something
that achieves its aim without the assistance of human con-
sciousness, and often defies it by wilfully insisting on its
own form and effect. We would therefore expect that works
belonging to the first class would nowhere overstep the
limits of comprehension, that their effect would be bounded
by the author's intention and would not extend beyond it.
But with works of the other class we would have to be pre-
pared for something suprapersonal that transcends our
understanding to the same degree that the author's con-
sciousness was in abeyance during the process of creation.
J 14 : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature
We would expect a strangeness of form and content,
thoughts that can only be apprehended intuitively, a lan-
guage pregnant with meanings, and images that are true
symbols because they are the best possible expressions for
something unknown — bridges thrown out towards an un-
seen shore.
These criteria are, by and large, corroborated in practice.
Whenever we are confronted with a work that was con-
sciously planned and with material that was consciously
selected, we find that it agrees with the first class of quali-
ties, and in the other case with the second. The example we
gave of Schiller's plays, on the one hand, and Faust II on
the other, or better still Zarathustra, is an illustration of
this. But I would not undertake to place the work of an
unknown poet in either of these categories without first
having examined rather closely his personal relations with
his work. It is not enough to know whether the poet be-
longs to the introverted or to the extraverted type, since it
is possible for either type to work with an introverted
attitude at one time, and an extraverted attitude at another.
This is particularly noticeable in the difference between
Schiller's plays and his philosophical writings, between
Goethe's perfectly formed poems and the obvious struggle
with his material in Faust II, and between Nietzsche's well-
turned aphorisms and the rushing torrent of Zarathustra.
The same poet can adopt different attitudes to his work at
different times, and on this depends the standard we have
to apply.
The question, as we now see, is exceedingly complicated,
and the complication grows even worse when we consider
the case of the poet who identifies with the creative process.
For should it turn out that the apparently conscious and
purposeful manner of composition is a subjective illusion
of the poet, then his work would possess symbolic qualities
that are outside the range of his consciousness. They would
only be more difficult to detect, because the reader as well
would be unable to get beyond the bounds of the poet's
Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry .3/5
consciousness which arc fixed by the spirit of the time.
There is no Archimedean point outside his world by which
he could lift his time-bound consciousness off its hinges and
recognize the symbols hidden in the poet's work. For a
symbol is the intimation of a meaning beyond the level of
our present powers of comprehension.
I raise this question only because I do not want my
typological classification to limit the possible significance
of works of art which apparently mean no more than what
they say. But we have often found that a poet who has
gone out of fashion is suddenly rediscovered. This happens
when our conscious development has reached a higher level
from which the poet can tell us something new. It was al-
ways present in his work but was hidden in a symbol, and
only a renewal of the spirit of the time permits us to read
its meaning. It needed to be looked at with fresher eyes,
for the old ones could see in it only what they were ac-
customed to see. Experiences of this kind should make us
cautious, as they bear out my earlier argument. But works
that are openly symbolic do not require this subtle ap-
proach; their pregnant language cries out at us that they
mean more than they say. We can put our finger on the
symbol at once, even though we may not be able to unrid-
dle its meaning to our entire satisfaction. A symbol remains
a perpetual challenge to our thoughts and feelings. That
probably explains why a symbolic work is so stimulating,
why it grips us so intensely, but also why it seldom affords
us a purely aesthetic enjoyment. A work that is manifestly
not symbolic appeals much more to our aesthetic sensibility
because it is complete in itself and fulfils its purpose.
What then, you may ask, can analytical psychology con-
tribute to our fundamental problem, which is the m\slery
of artistic creation? All that we have said so far has to do
only with the psychological phenomenology of art. Since
nobody can penetrate to the heart of nature, you will not
expect psychology to do the impossible and offer a valid
explanation of the secret of creativity. Like every other
316 : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature
science, psychology has only a modest contribution to make
towards a deeper understanding of the phenomena of life,
and is no nearer than its sister sciences to absolute knowl-
edge.
We have talked so much about the meaning of works of
art that one can hardly suppress a doubt as to whether art
really "means" anything at all. Perhaps art has no "mean-
ing," at least not as we understand meaning. Perhaps it is
like nature, which simply is and "means" nothing beyond
that. Is "meaning" necessarily more than mere interpreta-
tion — an interpretation secreted into something by an in-
tellect hungry for meaning? Art, it has been said, is beauty,
and "a thing of beauty is a joy for ever." It needs no mean-
ing, for meaning has nothing to do with art. Within the
sphere of art, I must accept the truth of this statement. But
when I speak of the relation of psychology to art we are
outside its sphere, and it is impossible for us not to specu-
late. We must interpret, we must find meanings in things,
otherwise we would be quite unable to think about them.
We have to break down life and events, which are self-con-
tained processes, into meanings, images, concepts, well
knowing that in doing so we are getting further away from
the living mystery. As long as we ourselves are caught up
in the process of creation, we neither see nor understand;
indeed we ought not to understand, for nothing is more in-
jurious to immediate experience than cognition. But for the
purpose of cognitive understanding we must detach our-
selves from the creative process and look at it from the out-
side; only then does it become an image that expresses
what we are bound to call "meaning." What was a mere
phenomenon before becomes something that in association
with other phenomena has meaning, that has a definite role
to play r serves certain ends, and exerts meaningful effects.
And when we have seen all this we get the feeling of having
understood and explained something. In this way we meet
the demands of science.
When, a little earlier, we spoke of a work of art as a
Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry : 317
tree growing out of the nourishing soil, we might equally
well have compared it to a child growing in the womb. But
as all comparisons are lame, let us stick to the more precise
terminology of science. You will remember that I described
the nascent work in the psyche of the artist as an auton-
omous complex. By this we mean a psychic formation that
remains subliminal until its energy-charge is sufficient to
carry it over the threshold into consciousness. Its associa-
tion with consciousness does not mean that it is assimilated,
only that it is perceived; but it is not subject to conscious
control, and can be neither inhibited nor voluntarily re-
produced. Therein lies the autonomy of the complex: it ap-
pears and disappears in accordance with its own inherent
tendencies, independently of the conscious will. The crea-
tive complex shares this peculiarity with every other auton-
omous complex. In this respect it offers an analogy with
pathological processes, since these too are characterized by
the presence of autonomous complexes, particularly in the
case of mental disturbances. The divine frenzy of the artist
comes perilously close to a pathological state, though the
two things are not identical. The tertium comparationis is
the autonomous complex. But the presence of autonomous
complexes is not in itself pathological, since normal people,
too, fall temporarily or permanently under their domina-
tion. This fact is simply one of the normal peculiarities of
the psyche, and for a man to be unaware of the existence
of an autonomous complex merely betrays a high degree of
unconsciousness. Every typical attitude that is to some
extent differentiated shows a tendency to become an auton-
omous complex, and in most cases it actually does. Again,
every instinct has more or less the character of an autono-
mous complex. In itself, therefore, an autonomous complex
has nothing morbid about it; only when its manifestations
are frequent and disturbing is it a symptom of illness.
How does an autonomous complex arise? For reasons
which we cannot go into here, a hitherto unconscious por-
tion of the psyche is thrown into activity, and gains ground
318 : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature
by activating the adjacent areas of association. The energy
needed for this is naturally drawn from consciousness — un-
less the latter happens to identify with the complex. But
where this does not occur, the drain of energy produces
what Janet calls an abaissement du niveau mental. The in-
tensity of conscious interests and activities gradually dimin-
ishes, leading either to apathy — a condition very common
with artists — or to a regressive development of the con-
scious functions, that is, they revert to an infantile and
archaic level and undergo something like a degeneration.
The "inferior parts of the functions," as Janet calls them,
push to the fore; the instinctual side of the personality
prevails over the ethical, the infantile over the mature, and
the unadapted over the adapted. This too is something we
see in the lives of many artists. The autonomous complex
thus develops by using the energy that has been withdrawn
from the conscious control of the personality.
But in what does an autonomous creative complex con-
sist? Of this we can know next to nothing so long as the
artist's work affords us no insight into its foundations. The
work presents us with a finished picture, and this picture
is amenable to analysis only to the extent that we can rec-
ognize it as a symbol. But if we are unable to discover any
symbolic value in it, we have merely established that, so
far as we are concerned, it means no more than what it
says, or to put it another way, that it is no more than what
it seems to be. I use the word "seems" because our own
bias may prevent a deeper appreciation of it. At any rate
we can find no incentive and no starting-point for an anal-
ysis. But in the case of a symbolic work we should remem-
ber the dictum of Gerhard Hauptmann: "Poetry evokes
out of words the resonance of the primordial word." The
question we should ask, therefore, is: "What primordial
image lies behind the imagery of art?"
This question needs a little elucidation. I am assuming
that the work of art we propose to analyze, as well as being
symbolic, has its source not in the personal unconscious of
Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry : 319
the poet, but in a sphere of unconscious mythology whose
primordial images are the common heritage of mankind. I
have called this sphere the collective unconscious, to dis-
tinguish it from the personal unconscious. The latter I
regard as the sum total of all those psychic processes and
contents which are capable of becoming conscious and
often do, but are then suppressed because of their incom-
patibility and kept subliminal. Art receives tributaries from
this sphere too, but muddy ones; and their predominance,
far from making a work of art a symbol, merely turns it
into a symptom. We can leave this kind of art without in-
jury and without regret to the purgative methods employed
by Freud.
In contrast to the personal unconscious, which is a rela-
tively thin layer immediately below the threshold of con-
sciousness, the collective unconscious shows no tendency
to become conscious under normal conditions, nor can it
be brought back to recollection by any analytical tech-
nique, since it was never repressed or forgotten. The collec-
tive unconscious is not to be thought of as a self-subsistent
entity; it is no more than a potentiality handed down to us
from primordial times in the specific form of mnemonic
images or inherited in the anatomical structure of the brain.
There are no inborn ideas, but there are inborn possibilities
of ideas that set bounds to even the boldest fantasy and
keep our fantasy activity within certain categories: a priori
ideas, as it were, the existence of which cannot be ascer-
tained except from their effects. They appear only in the
shaped material of art as the regulative principles that
shape it; that is to say, only by inferences drawn from the
finished work can we reconstruct the age-old original of the
primordial image.
The primordial image, or archetype, is a figure — be it a
daemon, a human being, or a process — that constantly re-
curs in the course of history and appears wherever creative
fantasy is freely expressed. Essentially, therefore, it is a
mythological figure. When we examine these images more
320 : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature
closely, we find that they give form to countless typical ex-
periences of our ancestors. They are, so to speak, the
psychic residua of innumerable experiences of the same
type. They present a picture of psychic life in the average,
divided up and projected into the manifold figures of the
mythological pantheon. But the mythological figures are
themselves products of creative fantasy and still have to be
translated into conceptual language. Only the beginnings
of such a language exist, but once the necessary concepts
are created they could give us an abstract, scientific under-
standing of the unconscious processes that lie at the roots
of the primordial images. In each of these images there is
a little piece of human psychology and human fate, a rem-
nant of the joys and sorrows that have been repeated
countless times in our ancestral history, and on the average
follow ever the same course. It is like a deeply graven river-
bed in the psyche, in which the waters of life, instead of
flowing along as before in a broad but shallow stream, sud-
denly swell into a mighty river. This happens whenever that
particular set of circumstances is encountered which over
long periods of time has helped to lay down the primor-
dial image.
The moment when this mythological situation reappears
is always characterized by a peculiar emotional intensity;
it is as though chords in us were struck that had never
resounded before, or as though forces whose existence we
never suspected were unloosed. What makes the struggle
for adaptation so laborious is the fact that we have con-
stantly to be dealing with individual and atypical situations.
So it is not surprising that when an archetypal situation
occurs we suddenly feel an extraordinary sense of release,
as though transported, or caught up by an overwhelming
power. At such moments we are no longer individuals, but
the race; the voice of all mankind resounds in us. The in-
dividual man cannot use his powers to the full unless he is
aided by one of those collective representations we call
ideals, which releases all the hidden forces of instinct that
Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry : 321
are inaccessible to his conscious will. The most effective
ideals are always fairly obvious variants of an archetype,
as is evident from the fact that they lend themselves to
allegory. The ideal of the "mother country/ 1 for instance,
is an obvious allegory of the mother, as is the "fatherland"
of the father. Its power to stir us docs not derive from the
allegory, but from the symbolical value of our native land.
The archetype here is the participation mystique of prim-
itive man with the soil on which he dwells, and which con-
tains the spirits of his ancestors.
The impact of an archetype, whether it takes the form
of immediate experience or is expressed through the spoken
word, stirs us because it summons up a voice that is
stronger than our own. Whoever speaks in primordial
images speaks with a thousand voices; he enthrals and
overpowers, while at the same time he lifts the idea he is
seeking to express out of the occasional and the transitory
into the realm of the ever-enduring. He transmutes our
personal destiny into the destiny of mankind, and evokes
in us all those beneficent forces that ever and anon have
enabled humanity to find a refuge from every peril and to
outlive the longest night.
That is the secret of great art, and of its effect upon us.
The creative process, so far as we are able to follow it at
all, consists in the unconscious activation of an archetypal
image, and in elaborating and shaping this image into the
finished work. By giving it shape, the artist translates it
into the language of the present, and so makes it possible
for us to find our way back to the deepest springs of life.
Therein lies the social significance of art: it is constantly
at work educating the spirit of the age, conjuring up the
forms in which the age is most lacking. The unsatisfied
yearning of the artist reaches back to the primordial image
in the unconscious which is best fitted to compensate the
inadequacy and one-sidedness of the present. The artist
seizes on this image, and in raising it from deepest uncon-
sciousness he brings it into relation with conscious values,
322 : The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature
thereby transforming it until it can be accepted by the
minds of his contemporaries according to their powers.
Peoples and times, like individuals, have their own char-
acteristic tendencies and attitudes. The very word "atti-
tude 1 ' betrays the necessary bias that every marked tend-
ency entails. Direction implies exclusion, and exclusion
means that very many psychic elements that could play
their part in life are denied the right to exist because they
are incompatible with the general attitude. The normal man
can follow the general trend without injury to himself; but
the man who takes to the back streets and alleys because
he cannot endure the broad highway will be the first to dis-
cover the psychic elements that are waiting to play their
part in the life of the collective. Here the artist's relative
lack of adaptation turns out to his advantage; it enables
him to follow his own yearnings far from the beaten path,
and to discover what it is that would meet the unconscious
needs of his age. Thus, just as the one-sidedness of the in-
dividual's conscious attitude is corrected by reactions from
the unconscious, so art represents a process of self-regula-
tion in the life of nations and epochs.
I am aware that in this lecture I have only been able to
sketch out my views in the barest outline. But I hope that
what I have been obliged to omit, that is to say their prac-
tical application to poetic works of art, has been furnished
by your own thoughts, thus giving flesh and blood to my
abstract intellectual frame.
M/7M
Individual Dream Symbolism
in Relation (o Alchemy 1
A Study of the Unconscious Processes
at Work in Dreams
. . . facilis descensus A verno;
nodes alque dies patet atri iauiia Ditis;
sed revocare graduni superascjue evadere ad auras, hoc
opus, hie labor esl. , . .
— Virgil, Aeneid, VI, 126-29
. , . easy is the descent to Avernus: night and day the
door of gloomy Dis stands open; but to recall thy steps
and pass out to the upper air, this is the task, this the toil!
— Translated by H. R. Fail dough
'Volume 12 of Professor Jung's Collected Works, of which this
article is Fart II, is a translation, wiih minor alterations made at
the instance of the author, of Psychologic and Alchemic (Zurich,
1944; 2nd cd., revised, 1952). Thai work was based on two lectures,
"Traumsymbole des lndi\ iduationsprozesscs," F.ranos-Jahrhuch 1935
(Zurich, 1936), and "Die Erlosungsvorstellungen in der Alchemic,"
Eranos-Jahrhuch 1936 (Zurich, 1937). These were translated by
Stanley Dell and published in The Integration of the Pa u>naluy
(New York, 1939; London, 1940) under the titles "Dream Sym-
bols of the Process of Individuation" and "The Idea of Redemp-
tion in Alchemy." Professor Jung then considerably expanded
them and added an introduction, in which he set out his whole
position particularly in relation to religion. These three pails to-
gether wiih a short epilogue make up the Swiss volume, of which
Collected Works, Vol. 12, is a translation. — J.C.
323
324 : Psychology and Alchemy
1. Introduction
I. The Material
The symbols of the process of individuation that appear in
dreams are images of an archetypal nature which depict
the centralizing process or the production of a new centre
of personality. A general idea of this process may be got
from my essay, "The Relations between the Ego and the
Unconscious." 2 For certain reasons mentioned there I call
this centre the "self," which should be understood as the
totality of the psyche. The self is not only the centre, but
also the whole circumference which embraces both con-
scious and unconscious; it is the centre of this totality, just
as the ego is the centre of consciousness.
The symbols now under consideration are not concerned
with the manifold stages and transformations of the indi-
viduation process, but with the images that refer directly
and exclusively to the new centre as it comes into con-
sciousness. These images belong to a definite category
which I call mandala symbolism. In The Secret of the
Golden Flower, published in collaboration with Richard
Wilhelm, I have described this symbolism in some detail.
In the present study I should like to put before you an in-
dividual series of such symbols in chronological order. The
material consists of over a thousand dreams and visual im-
pressions coming from a young man of excellent scientific
education/* For the purposes of this study I have worked
on the first four hundred dreams and visions, which covered
a period of nearly ten months. In order to avoid all per-
sonal influence I asked one of my pupils, a woman doctor,
2 See supra, pp. 70-138.
3 1 must emphasize that this education was not historical, philo-
logical, archaeological, or ethnological. Any references to material
derived from these fields came unconsciously to the dreamer.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 325
who was then a beginner, to undertake the observation of
the process. This went on for five months. The dreamer
then continued his observations alone for three months.
Except for a short interview at the very beginning, before
the commencement of the observation, I did not see the
dreamer at all during the first eight months. Thus it hap-
pened that 355 of the dreams were dreamed away from
any personal contact with myself. Only the last forty-five
occurred under my observation. No interpretations worth
mentioning were then attempted because the dreamer,
owing to his excellent scientific training and ability, did
not require any assistance. Hence conditions were really
ideal for unprejudiced observation and recording.
First of all, then, I shall present extracts from the twenty-
two initial dreams in order to show how the mandala sym-
bolism makes a very early appearance and is embedded in
the rest of the dream material. Later on I shall pick out in
chronological order the dreams that refer specifically to
the mandala. 4
With few exceptions all the dreams have been abbrevi-
ated, either by extracting the part that carries the main
thought or by condensing the whole text to essentials. This
simplifying procedure has not only curtailed their length
but has also removed personal allusions and complications,
as was necessary for reasons of discretion. Despite this
somewhat doubtful interference I have, to the best of my
knowledge and scrupulosity, avoided any arbitrary distor-
tion of meaning. The same considerations had also to apply
to my own interpretation, so that certain passages in the
dreams may appear to have been overlooked. Had I not
made this sacrifice and kept the material absolutely com-
plete, I should not have been in a position to publish this
series, which in my opinion could hardly be surpassed in
intelligence, clarity, and consistency. It therefore gives me
* "Mandala" (Sanskrit) means "circle," also "magic circle." lis
symbolism includes — to mention only the most important forms —
all concentrically arranged figures, round or square patterns \Mth
a centre, and radial or spherical arrangements.
326 : Psychology and Alchemy
great pleasure to express my sincere gratitude here and
now to the "author" for the service he has rendered to
science.
II. The Method
In my writings and lectures I have always insisted that
we must give up all preconceived opinions when it comes
to the analysis and interpretation of the objective psyche, 5
in other words the "unconscious." We do not yet possess a
general theory of dreams that would enable us to use a
deductive method with impunity, any more than we possess
a general theory of consciousness from which we can draw
deductive conclusions. The manifestations of the subjective
psyche, or consciousness, can be predicted to only the
smallest degree, and there is no theoretical argument to
prove beyond doubt that any causal connection necessarily
exists between them. On the contrary, we have to reckon
with a high percentage of arbitrariness and "chance" in
the complex actions and reactions of the conscious mind.
Similarly there is no empirical, still less a theoretical, rea-
son to assume that the same does not apply to the mani-
festations of the unconscious. The latter are just as mani-
fold, unpredictable, and arbitrary as the former and must
therefore be subjected to as many different ways of ap-
proach. In the case of conscious utterances we are in the
fortunate position of being directly addressed and presented
with a content whose purpose we can recognize; but with
"unconscious" manifestations there is no directed or
adapted language in our sense of the word — there is merely
a psychic phenomenon that would appear to have only the
loosest connections with conscious contents. If the expres-
s For this concept see Jung, "Basic Postulates of Analytical Psy-
chology" {Collected Works, Vol. 8), and Toni Wolff, "Einfuhrung
in die Grundlagen der komplexen Psychologies in Studien zu
C. G.Jung's Psychologie (Zurich, 1959), pp. 34ff.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 327
sions of the conscious mind are incomprehensible we can
always ask what they mean. But the objective psyche is
something alien even to the conscious mind through which
it expresses itself. We are therefore obliged to adopt the
method we would use in deciphering a fragmentary text or
one containing unknown words: we examine the context.
The meaning of the unknown word may become evident
when we compare a series of passages in which it occurs.
The psychological context of dream-contents consists in
the web of associations in which the dream is naturally
embedded. Theoretically we can never know anything in
advance about this web, but in practice it is sometimes
possible, granted long enough experience. Even so, careful
analysis will never rely too much on technical rules; the
danger of deception and suggestion is too great. In the
analysis of isolated dreams above all, this kind of knowing
in advance and making assumptions on the grounds of prac-
tical expectation or general probability is positively wrong.
It should therefore be an absolute rule to assume that every
dream, and every part of a dream, is unknown at the out-
set, and to attempt an interpretation only after carefully
taking up the context. We can then apply the meaning we
have thus discovered to the text of the dream itself and see
whether this yields a fluent reading, or rather whether a
satisfying meaning emerges. But in no circumstances may
we anticipate that this meaning will fit in with any of our
subjective expectations; for quite possibly, indeed very fre-
quently, the dream is saying something surprisingly differ-
ent from what we would expect. As a matter of fact, if the
meaning we find in the dream happens to coincide with our
expectations, that is a reason for suspicion; for as a rule
the standpoint of the unconscious is complementary or
compensatory 6 to consciousness and thus unexpectedly "dif-
ferent." I would not deny the possibility of parallel dreams,
i.e., dreams whose meaning coincides with or supports the
e I intentionally omit an analysis of the words "complementary**
and "compensatory," as it would lead us too far afield.
j 28 ; Psychology and Alchemy
conscious attitude, but, in my experience at least, these are
rather rare.
Now, the method I adopt in the present study seems to
run directly counter to this basic principle of dream inter-
pretation. It looks as if the dreams were being interpreted
without the least regard for the context. And in fact I
have not taken up the context at all, seeing that the dreams
in this series were not dreamed (as mentioned above) un-
der my observation. I proceed rather as if I had had the
dreams myself and were therefore in a position to supply
the context.
This procedure, if applied to isolated dreams of some-
one unknown to me personally, would indeed be a gross
technical blunder. But here we are not dealing with isolated
dreams; they form a coherent series in the course of which
the meaning gradually unfolds more or less of its own ac-
cord. The series is the context which the dreamer himself
supplies. It is as if not one text but many lay before us,
throwing light from all sides on the unknown terms, so that
a reading of all the texts is sufficient to elucidate the diffi-
cult passages in each individual one. Moreover, in the third
chapter we are concerned with a definite archetype — the
mandala — that has long been known to us from other
sources, and this considerably facilitates the interpretation.
Of course the interpretation of each individual passage is
bound to be largely conjecture, but the series as a whole
gives us all the clues we need to correct any possible errors
in the preceding passages.
It goes without saying that while the dreamer was under
the observation of my pupil he knew nothing of these inter-
pretations and was therefore quite unprejudiced by any-
body else's opinion. Moreover I hold the view, based on
wide experience, that the possibility and danger of prejudg-
ment are exaggerated. Experience shows that the objective
psyche is independent in the highest degree. Were it not so,
it could not carry out its most characteristic function: the
compensation of the conscious mind. The conscious mind
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 329
allows itself to be trained like a parrot, but the unconscious
does not — which is why St. Augustine thanked God for not
making him responsible for his dreams. The unconscious is
an autonomous psychic entity; any efforts to drill it are
only apparently successful, and moreover are harmful to
consciousness. It is and remains beyond the reach of sub-
jective arbitrary control, in a realm where nature and her
secrets can be neither improved upon nor perverted, where
we can listen but may not meddle.
2. The Initial Dreams
1. Dream:
The dreamer is at a social gathering. On leaving, he puts
on a stranger's hat instead of his own.
The hat, as a covering for the head, has the general sense
of something that epitomizes the head. Just as in summing
up we bring ideas "under one head" (unter einen Hut), so
the hat, as a sort of leading idea, covers the whole person-
ality and imparts its own significance to it. Coronation en-
dows the ruler with the divine nature of the sun, the doc-
tor's hood bestows the dignity of a scholar, and a stranger's
hat imparts a strange personality. Meyrink uses this theme
in his novel The Golem, where the hero puts on the hat of
Athanasius Pernath and, as a result, becomes involved in a
strange experience. It is clear enough in The Golem that it
is the unconscious which entangles the hero in fantastic ad-
ventures. Let us stress at once the significance of the Golem
parallel and assume that the hat in the dream is the hat of
an Athanasius, an immortal, a being beyond time, the uni-
versal and everlasting man as distinct from the ephemeral
and "accidental" mortal man. Encircling the head, the hat
is round like the sun-disc of a crown and therefore contains
the first allusion to the mandala. We shall find the attribute
of eternal duration confirmed in the ninth mandala dream
while the mandala character of the hat comes out in the
5J0 ; Psychology and Alchemy
thirty-fifth mandala dream. As a general result of the ex-
change of hats we may expect a development similar to that
in The Golem: an emergence of the unconscious. The un-
conscious with its figures is already standing like a shadow
behind the dreamer and pushing its way into consciousness,
2. Dream:
The dreamer is going on a railway journey, and by stand-
ing in front of the window, he blocks the view for his fel-
low passengers. He must get out of their way.
The process is beginning to move, and the dreamer dis-
covers that he is keeping the light from those who stand
behind him, namely the unconscious components of his
personality. We have no eyes behind us; consequently "be-
hind" is the region of the unseen, the unconscious. If the
dreamer will only stop blocking the window (conscious-
ness), the unconscious content will become conscious.
3. Hypnagogic visual impression:
By the sea shore. The sea breaks into the land, flooding
everything. Then the dreamer is sitting on a lonely island.
The sea is the symbol of the collective unconscious, be-
cause unfathomed depths lie concealed beneath its reflect-
ing surface. 7 Those who stand behind, the shadowy person-
ifications of the unconscious, have burst into the terra firma
of consciousness like a flood. Such invasions have some-
thing uncanny about them because they are irrational and
incomprehensible to the person concerned. They bring
about a momentous alteration of his personality since they
immediately constitute a painful personal secret which
alienates and isolates him from his surroundings. It is
7 The sea is a favourite place for the birth of visions (i.e., in-
vasions by unconscious contents). Thus the great vision of the
eagle in II Esdras n : 1 rises out of the sea, and the vision of "Man"
—avdpojiros — in 13 : 3, 25, and 51 comes up "from the midst of
the sea." Cf. also 13 : 52: "Like as thou canst neither seek out
nor know the things that are in the deep of the sea: even so can
no man upon earth see my Son. . . ."
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 331
something that we "cannot tell anybody." We are afraid of
being accused of mental abnormality — not without reason,
for much the same thing happens to lunatics. Even so, it is
a far cry from the intuitive perception of such an invasion
to being inundated by it pathologically, though the layman
does not realize this. Isolation by a secret results as a rule
in an animation of the psychic atmosphere, as a substitute
for loss of contact with other people. It causes an activation
of the unconscious, and this produces something similar to
the illusions and hallucinations that beset lonely wanderers
in the desert, seafarers, and saints. The mechanism of these
phenomena can best be explained in terms of energy. Our
normal relations to objects in the world at large are main-
tained by a certain expenditure of energy. If the relation
to the object is cut off there is a "retention" of energy,
which then creates an equivalent substitute. For instance,
just as persecution mania comes from a relationship poi-
soned by mistrust, so, as a substitute for the normal anima-
tion of the environment, an illusory reality rises up in which
weird ghostly shadows flit about in place of people. That
is why primitive man has always believed that lonely and
desolate places are haunted by "devils" and suchlike appari-
tions.
4. Dream:
The dreamer is surrounded by a throng of vague female
forms. A voice within him says, "First I must get away
from Father."
Here the psychic atmosphere has been animated by what
the Middle Ages would call succubi. We are reminded of
the visions of St. Anthony in Egypt, so eruditely described
by Flaubert in La Tentation de Saint- Antoine. The element
of hallucination shows itself in the fact that the thought is
spoken aloud. The words "first I must get away" call for a
concluding sentence which would begin with "in order to."
Presumably it would run "in order to follow the uncon-
scious, i.e., the alluring female forms." The father, the cm-
332 : Psychology and Alchemy
bodiment of the traditional spirit as expressed in religion or
a general philosophy of life, is standing in his way. He im-
prisons the dreamer in the world of the conscious mind
and its values. The traditional masculine world with its in-
tellectualism and rationalism is felt to be an impediment,
from which we must conclude that the unconscious, now
approaching him, stands in direct opposition to the tend-
encies of the conscious mind and that the dreamer, despite
this opposition, is already favourably disposed towards the
unconscious. For this reason the latter should not be sub-
ordinated to the rationalistic judgments of consciousness;
it ought rather to be an experience sui generis. Naturally it
is not easy for the intellect to accept this, because it in-
volves at least a partial, if not a total, sacrificium intellec-
ts. Furthermore, the problem thus raised is very difficult
for modern man to grasp; for to begin with he can under-
stand the unconscious only as an inessential and unreal
appendage of the conscious mind, and not as a special
sphere of experience with laws of its own. In the course of
the later dreams this conflict will appear again and again,
until finally the right formula is found for the correlation
of conscious and unconscious, and the personality is as-
signed its correct position between the two. Moreover, such
a conflict cannot be solved by understanding, but only by
experience. Every stage of the experience must be lived
through. There is no feat of interpretation or any other
trick by which to circumvent this difficulty, for the union of
conscious and unconscious can be achieved only step by
step.
The resistance of the conscious mind to the unconscious
and the depreciation of the latter were historical necessities
in the development of the human psyche, for otherwise the
conscious mind would never have been able to differentiate
itself at all. But modern man's consciousness has strayed
rather too far from the fact of the unconscious. We have
even forgotten that the psyche is by no means of our design,
but is for the most part autonomous and unconscious. Con-
sequently the approach of the unconscious induces a panic
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 333
fear in civilized people, not least on account of the menac-
ing analogy with insanity. The intellect has no objection to
"analyzing" the unconscious as a passive object; on the
contrary such an activity would coincide with our rational
expectations. But to let the unconscious go its own way and
to experience it as a reality is something that exceeds the
courage and capacity of the average European. He prefers
simply not to understand this problem. For the spiritually
weak-kneed this is the better course, since the thing is not
without its dangers.
The experience of the unconscious is a personal secret
communicable only to very few, and that with difficulty;
hence the isolating effect we noted above. But isolation
brings about a compensatory animation of the psychic at-
mosphere which strikes us as uncanny. The figures that
appear in the dream are feminine, thus pointing to the femi-
nine nature of the unconscious. They are fairies or fascinat-
ing sirens and lamias, who infatuate the lonely wanderer
and lead him astray. Likewise seductive maidens appear
at the beginning of the nekyia 8 of Poliphilo 9 and the Me-
lusina of Paracelsus 10 is another such figure.
5. Visual impression:
A snake describes a circle round the dreamer, who stands
rooted to the ground like a tree.
8 X€Kvia, from j/e'/a/s (corpse), the title of the eleventh book of
the Odyssey, is the sacrifice to the dead for conjuring up the departed
from Hades. Nekyia is therefore an apt designation for the "journey
to Hades," the descent into the land of the dead, and was used by
Dieterich in this sense in his commentary on the Codex of Akhmim,
which contains an apocalyptic fragment from the Gospel of Peter
{Nekyia: Beit rage zur Erkl'drung der neuentdeckten Petmsapo-
kalypse). Typical examples arc the Divine Comedy, the classical
Walpurgisnacht in Faust, the apocryphal accounts of Christ's
descent into hell, etc.
w Cf. the French edition of Hypnerotomachia, called Lc Tableau des
riches inventions or Songe de I'oliphile, translated by Beroalde dc
Vervillc (Paris, 1600). The original Italian edition appeared in
1499.
10 For details see Jung, "Paracelsus as a Spiritual Phenomenon
{Collected Works, Vol. 13), pars. 179^. 2I 4ft.
S34 : Psychology and Alchemy
The drawing of a spellbinding circle is an ancient magical
device used by everyone who has a special or secret pur-
pose in mind. He thereby protects himself from the "perils
of the soul" that threaten him from without and attack any-
one who is isolated by a secret. The same procedure has
also been used since olden times to set a place apart as
holy and inviolable: in founding a city, for instance, they
first drew the sulcus primigenius or original furrow. 11 The
fact that the dreamer stands rooted to the centre is a com-
pensation of his almost insuperable desire to run away
from the unconscious. He experienced an agreeable feeling
of relief after this vision — and rightly, since he has suc-
ceeded in establishing a protected temenos y 12 a taboo area
where he will be able to meet the unconscious. His isola-
tion, so uncanny before, is now endowed with meaning and
purpose, and thus robbed of its terrors.
6. Visual impression, directly following upon 5:
The veiled figure of a woman seated on a stair.
The motif of the unknown woman — whose technical
name is the "anima" 13 — appears here for the first time,
Like the throng of vague female forms in dream 4, she is
a personification of the animated psychic atmosphere. From
now on the figure of the unknown woman reappears in a
great many of the dreams. Personification always indicates
an autonomous activity of the unconscious. If some per-
sonal figure appears we may be sure that the unconscious
is beginning to grow active. The activity of such figures
very often has an anticipatory character: something that
the dreamer himself will do later is now being done in ad-
vance. In this case the allusion is to a stair, thus indicating
an ascent or a descent.
Since the process running through dreams of this kind
"Eduard Fritz Knuchel, Die Umwandlung in Kult, Magie und
Rechtsbrauch (Basel, 19 19).
12 A piece of land, often a grove, sec apart and dedicated to a god.
13 For the concept of the "anima," see supra, pp. 148-161.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 33s
has an historical analogy in the rites of initiation, it may
not be superfluous to draw attention to the important part
which the Stairway of the Seven Planets played in these
rites, as we know from Apuleius, among others. The initia-
tions of late classical syncretism, already saturated with
alchemy (cf. the visions of Zosimos), 14 were particularly
concerned with the theme of ascent, i.e., sublimation. The
ascent was often represented by a ladder; hence the burial
gift in Egypt of a smaller ladder for the ka of the dead. 15
The idea of an ascent through the seven spheres of the
planets symbolizes the return of the soul to the sun-god
from whom it originated, as we know for instance from
Firmicus Maternus. 16 Thus the Isis mystery described by
Apuleius 17 culminated in what early medieval alchemy,
going back to Alexandrian tradition as transmitted by the
Arabs, 18 called the solificatio, where the initiand was
crowned as Helios.
7. Visual impression:
The veiled woman uncovers her face. It shines like the
sun.
The solificatio is consummated on the person of the
anima. The process would seem to correspond to the illumi-
natio t or enlightenment. This "mystical" idea contrasts
strongly with the rational attitude of the conscious mind,
which recognizes only intellectual enlightenment as the
highest form of understanding and insight. Naturally this
"Zosimos lived c. a.d. 300. Cf. Richard Reitzenstein, Poimandres:
Studien zur griechisch-agyptischen und friihchristlichen Literatur
(Leipzig, 1904), pp. 9fT.; Marcellin Berthelot, Collection des anciens
alchimistes grecs (Paris, 1887-88, 3 vols.). Vol. Ill.i, p. 2.
"The ladder motif is confirmed in dreams 12 and 13. Cf. also Jacob's
ladder.
16 De errore projanarum religionum: "Animo descensus per orbem
solis tribuitur" (It is said [by the pagans] that the soul descends
through the circle of the sun).
17 The Golden Ass.
18 Cf. Julius Ferdinand Ruska, Turba Philosophorum: eln Beitrag
zur Geschichte der Alchemie. Qucllen und Studien zur Geschichte
der Naturwissenschaften und der Medizin, 1 (Berlin, 193 1).
33$ •' Psychology and Alchemy
attitude never reckons with the fact that scientific knowl-
edge only satisfies the little tip of personality that is con-
temporaneous with ourselves, not the collective psyche 19
that reaches back into the grey mists of antiquity and al-
ways requires a special rite if it is to be united with present-
day consciousness. It is clear, therefore, that a "lighting up"
of the unconscious is being prepared, which has far more
the character of an illuminatio than of rational "elucida-
tion." The solificatio is infinitely far removed from the
conscious mind and seems to it almost chimerical.
8. Visual impression:
A rainbow is to be used as a bridge. But one must go
under it and not over it. Whoever goes over it will fall and
be killed.
Only the gods can walk rainbow bridges in safety; mere
mortals fall and meet their death, for the rainbow is only
a lovely semblance that spans the sky, and not a highway
for human beings with bodies. These must pass "under it."
But water flows under bridges too, following its own gra-
dient and seeking the lowest place. This hint will be con-
firmed later.
9. Dream:
A green land where many sheep are pastured. It is the
"land of sheep."
This curious fragment, inscrutable at first glance, may
derive from childhood impressions and particularly from
those of a religious nature, which would not be far to seek
in this connection — e.g., "He maketh me to lie down in
green pastures," or the early Christian allegories of sheep
and shepherd. 20 The next vision points in the same direc-
tion.
19 Cf. "collective unconscious," supra, pp. 59-69.
20 The direct source of the Christian sheep symbolism is to be
found in the visions of the Book of Enoch 89 : ioff. (Robert Henry
Charles, ed., Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha [Oxford, 191 3, 2 vols.],
Vol. II, p. 252). The Apocalypse of Enoch was written about the
beginning of the first century b.c
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 33J
10. Visual impression:
The unknown woman stands in the land of sheep and
points the way.
The anima, having already anticipated the solificatio,
now appears as the psychopomp, the one who shows the
way. 21 The way begins in the children's land, i.e., at a time
when rational present-day consciousness was not yet sep-
arated from the historical psyche, the collective uncon-
scious. The separation is indeed inevitable, but it leads to
such an alienation from that dim psyche of the dawn of
mankind that a loss of instinct ensues. The result is in-
stinctual atrophy and hence disorientation in everyday
human situations. But it also follows from the separation
that the "children's land" will remain definitely infantile
and become a perpetual source of childish inclinations and
impulses. These intrusions are naturally most unwelcome
to the conscious mind, and it consistently represses them
for that reason. But the very consistency of the repression
only serves to bring about a still greater alienation from
the fountainhead, thus increasing the lack of instinct until
it becomes lack of soul. As a result, the conscious mind is
either completely swamped by childishness or else con-
stantly obliged to defend itself in vain against the inunda-
tion, by means of a cynical affectation of old age or em-
bittered resignation. We must therefore realize that despite
its undeniable success the rational attitude of present-day
consciousness is, in many human respects, childishly un-
adapted and hostile to life. Life has grown desiccated and
cramped, crying out for the rediscovery of the fountain-
head. But the fountainhead can only be found if the con-
scious mind will suffer itself to be led back to the "chil-
dren's land," there to receive guidance from the uncon-
scious as before. To remain a child too long is childish, but
it is just as childish to move away and then assume that
71 In the vision of Enoch, the leader and prince appears first as a
sheep or ram: Book of Enoch 89 : 48 (Charles, op. cit., Vol. II, p.
254).
338 : Psychology and Alchemy
childhood no longer exists because we do not see it, But if
we return to the ''children's land" we succumb to the fear
of becoming childish, because we do not understand that
everything of psychic origin has a double face. One face
looks forward, the other back. It is ambivalent and there-
fore symbolic, like all living reality.
We stand on a peak of consciousness, believing in a child^
ish way that the path leads upward to yet higher peaks be-
yond. That is the chimerical rainbow bridge. In order to
reach the next peak we must first go down into the land
where the paths begin to divide.
li> Dream:
A voice says, "But you are still a child"
This dream forces the dreamer to admit that even a
highly differentiated consciousness has not by any means
finished with childish things, and that a return to the world
of childhood is necessary.
12, Dream;
A dangerous walk with Father and Mother, up and
down many ladders.
A childish consciousness is always tied to father and
mother, and is never by itself. Return to childhood is al-
ways the return to father and mother, to the whole burden
of the psychic non-ego as represented by the parents, with
its long and momentous history. Regression spells disinte-
gration into our historical and hereditary determinants,
and it is only with the greatest effort that we can free our-
selves from their embrace. Our psychic pre-history is in
truth the spirit of gravity, which needs steps and ladders be-
cause, unlike the disembodied airy intellect, it cannot fly at
will. Disintegration into the jumble of historical determi-
nants is like losing one's way, where even what is right
seems an alarming mistake.
As hinted above, the steps and ladders theme points to
the process of psychic transformation, with all its ups and
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 339
downs. We find a classic example of this in Zosimos' ascent
and descent of the fifteen steps of light and darkness. --
It is of course impossible to free oneself from one's child-
hood without devoting a great deal of work to it, as Freud's
researches have long since shown. Nor can it be achieved
through intellectual knowledge only; what is alone elTectivc
is a remembering that is also a re-experiencing. The swift
passage of the years and the overwhelming inrush of the
newly discovered world leave a mass of material behind
that is never dealt with. We do not shake this off; we merely
remove ourselves from it. So that when, in later years, we
return to the memories of childhood we find bits o( our per-
sonality still alive, which cling round us and suffuse us with
the feeling of earlier times. Being still in their childhood
state, these fragments are very powerful in their effect.
They can lose their infantile aspect and be corrected only
when they are reunited with adult consciousness. This ''per-
sonal unconscious" must always be dealt with first, that is,
made conscious, otherwise the gateway to the collective un-
conscious cannot be opened. The journey with father and
mother up and down many ladders represents the making
conscious of infantile contents that have not yet been inte-
grated.
13. Dream:
The father calls out anxiously, "That is the seventh!' 1
During the walk over many ladders some event has evi-
dently taken place which is spoken of as "the seventh." In
the language of initiation, "seven" stands for the highest
stage of illumination and would therefore be the coveted
goal of all desire. But to the conventional mind the soli*
ficatio is an outlandish, mystical idea bordering on mad-
ness. We assume that it was only in the dark ages o\ misty
superstition that people thought in such a nonsensical fash-
ion, but that the lucid and hygienic mentality of our own
-Bcrthclot, Collection des anciens alchimLttfs grecs. Ill, i. 1 C f
also Jung, "The Visions of Zosimos" (Collected II Oiks, Vert. i3)«
340 : Psychology and Alchemy
enlightened days has long since outgrown such nebulous no-
tions, so much so, indeed, that this particular kind of "illu-
mination" is to be found nowadays only in a lunatic asy-
lum. No wonder the father is scared and anxious, like a hen
that has hatched out ducklings and is driven to despair by
the aquatic proclivities of its young. If this interpretation —
that the ''seventh" represents the highest stage of illumina-
tion — is correct, it would mean in principle that the process
of integrating the personal unconscious was actually at an
end. Thereafter the collective unconscious would begin to
open up, which would suffice to explain the anxiety the
father felt as the representative of the traditional spirit.
Nevertheless the return to the dim twilight of the un-
conscious does not mean that we should entirely abandon
the precious acquisition of our forefathers, namely the in-
tellectual differentiation of consciousness. It is rather a
question of the man taking the place of the intellect — not
the man whom the dreamer imagines himself to be, but
someone far more rounded and complete. This would
mean assimilating all sorts of things into the sphere of his
personality which the dreamer still rejects as disagreeable or
even impossible. The father who calls out so anxiously,
"That is the seventh!" is a psychic component of the
dreamer himself, and the anxiety is therefore his own. So
the interpretation must bear in mind the possibility that
the "seventh" means not only a sort of culmination but
something rather ominous as well. We come across this
theme, for instance, in the fairytale of Tom Thumb and the
Ogre. Tom Thumb is the youngest of seven brothers. His
dwarflike stature and his cunning are harmless enough, yet
he is the one who leads his brothers to the ogre's lair, thus
proving his own dangerous double nature as a bringer of
good and bad luck; in other words, he is also the ogre him-
self. Since olden times "the seven" have represented the
seven gods of the planets; they form what the Pyramid in-
scriptions call a pant neteru, a "company of gods." 23 Al-
23 Sir E. A. Wallis Budge, in Gods of the Egyptians (London, 1904,
2 vols.), Vol. I, p. 87, uses this expression.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 341
though a company is described as "nine," it often proves
to be not nine at all but ten, and sometimes even more.
Thus Maspcro- 4 tells us that the first and last members of
the series can be added to, or doubled, without injury to the
number nine. Something of the sort happened to the classi-
cal pant of the Greco-Roman or Babylonian gods in the
post-classical age, when the gods were degraded to demons
and retired partly to the distant stars and partly to the
metals inside the earth. It then transpired that Hermes or
Mercurius possessed a double nature, being a chthonic god
of revelation and also the spirit of quicksilver, for which
reason he was represented as a hermaphrodite. As the
planet Mercury, he is nearest to the sun, hence he is pre-
eminently related to gold. But, as quicksilver, he dissolves
the gold and extinguishes its sunlike brilliance. All through
the Middle Ages he was the object of much puzzled specu-
lation on the part of the natural philosophers: sometimes he
was a ministering and helpful spirit, a TrdptSfjos (literally
"assistant, comrade") or familiaris; and sometimes the
servus or cervus fugitivus (the fugitive slave or stag), an
elusive, deceptive, teasing goblin 25 who drove the alchemists
to despair and had many of his attributes in common with
the devil. For instance he is dragon, lion, eagle, raven, to
mention only the most important of them. In the alchemical
hierarchy of gods Mercurius comes lowest as prima materia
and highest as lapis philosophornm. The spirit us mcrcurialis
is the alchemists' guide (Hermes Psychopompos, and their
tempter; he is their ^ood luck and their ruin. His dual na-
ture enables him to be not only the seventh but also the
eighth — the eighth on Olympus, "whom nobody thought
of" (see infra, p. 404).
It may seem odd to the reader that anything as remote as
medieval alchemy should have relevance here. But the
24 Sir Gaston Camillc Charles Maspcro, £tudcs de mythohgic et
d'archeologie cgyptiennes (Paris, 1893—19 1 3, 7 vols.), Vol. II, p.
245-'
23 Cf. the entertaining dialogue between the alchemist and Mercurius
in Sendivogius, "Dialogus Mcrcurii, alchymislac, ct naturae,"
Thcatrum chemicum, Vol. 4 (Slrassburg, 1 61 3), pp. 509-17.
342 : Psychology and Alchemy
"black art" is not nearly so remote as we think; for as an
educated man the dreamer must have read Faust, and Faust
is an alchemical drama from beginning to end, although the
educated man of today has only the haziest notion of this.
Our conscious mind is far from understanding everything,
but the unconscious always keeps an eye on the "age-old,
sacred things," however strange they may be, and reminds
us of them at a suitable opportunity. No doubt Faust af-
fected our dreamer much as Goethe was affected when, as a
young man in his Leipzig days, he studied Theophrastus
Paracelsus with Fraulein von Klettenberg. 26 It was then,
as we certainly may assume, that the mysterious equiva-
lence of seven and eight sank deep into his soul, without his
conscious mind ever unravelling the mystery. The following
dream will show that this reminder of Faust is not out of
place.
14. Dream:
The dreamer is in America looking for an employee with
a pointed beard. They say that everybody has such an em-
ployee.
America is the land of practical, straightforward think-
ing, uncontaminated by our European sophistication. The
intellect would there be kept, very sensibly, as an employee.
This naturally sounds like lese-majeste and might therefore
be a serious matter. So it is consoling to know that every-
one (as is always the case in America) does the same. The
"man with a pointed beard" is our time-honoured Meph-
isto whom Faust "employed" and who was not permitted
to triumph over him in the end, despite the fact that Faust
had dared to descend into the dark chaos of the historical
psyche and steep himself in the ever-changing, seamy side
of life that rose up out of that bubbling cauldron.
From subsequent questions it was discovered that the
dreamer himself had recognized the figure of Mephis-
topheles in the "man with the pointed beard." Versatility
28 Goethe, Dichtung und Wahrheit.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 343
of mind as well as the inventive gift and scientific leanings
are attributes of the astrological Mercurius. Hence the man
with the pointed beard represents the intellect, which is
introduced by the dream as a real familiaris, an obliging if
somewhat dangerous spirit. The intellect is thus degraded
from the supreme position it once occupied and is put in
the second rank, and at the same time branded as daemonic.
Not that it had ever been anything but daemonic — only the
dreamer had not noticed before how possessed he was by
the intellect as the tacitly recognized supreme power. Now
he has a chance to view this function, which till then had
been the uncontested dominant of his psychic life, at some-
what closer quarters. Well might he exclaim with Faust:
"So that's what was inside the poodle!" Mephistopheles is
the diabolical aspect of every psychic function that has
broken loose from the hierarchy of the total psyche and
now enjoys independence and absolute power. But this
aspect can be perceived only when the function becomes a
separate entity and is objectivated or personified, as in this
dream.
Amusingly enough, the "man with the pointed beard"
also crops up in alchemical literature, in one of the "Parab-
olae" contained in the "Guldenen Tractat vom philosophi-
schen Stein," 27 written in 1625, which Herbert Silberer 28
has analyzed from a psychological point of view. Among
the company of old white-bearded philosophers there is a
young man with a black pointed beard. Silberer is uncertain
whether he should assume this figure to be the devil.
Mercurius as quicksilver is an eminently suitable symbol
for the "fluid," i.e., mobile, intellect. Therefore in alchemy
Mercurius is sometimes a "spirit" and sometimes a "water/*
the so-called aqua permanens, which is none other than
argent um vivum.
97 Printed in Geheime Figuren der Rosenkrcuzer, aus dem i6ten
und i-jlen Jahrhundert (Altona, 1785-88, 2 vols.).
88 Herbert Silberer, Problems of Mysticism and Its Symbolism,
translated by Smith Ely Jellifle (New York, 1917).
344 •* Psychology and Alchemy
15. Dream:
The dreamer s mother is pouring water from one basin
into another. (The dreamer only remembered in connection
with vision 28 of the next series that this basin belonged
to his sister.) This action is performed with great solem-
nity: it is of the highest significance for the outside world.
Then the dreamer is rejected by his father.
Once more we meet with the theme of "exchange" (cf.
dream 1): one thing is put in the place of another. The
"father" has been dealt with; now begins the action of the
"mother." Just as the father represents collective conscious-
ness, the traditional spirit, so the mother stands for the col-
lective unconscious, the source of the water of life. 29 (Cf.
the maternal significance of 7rr)yrj, s<) the fons signatus? 1 as
an attribute of the Virgin Mary, etc.) The unconscious has
altered the locus of the life forces, thus indicating a change
of attitude. The dreamer's subsequent recollection enables
us to see who is now the source of life: it is the "sister."
The mother is superior to the son, but the sister is his equal.
Thus the deposition of the intellect frees the dreamer from
the domination of the unconscious and hence from his in-
fantile attitude. Although the sister is a remnant of the past,
we know definitely from later dreams that she was the car-
rier of the anima-image. We may therefore assume that the
transferring of the water of life to the sister really means
that the mother has been replaced by the anima. 32
The anima now becomes a life-giving factor, a psychic
reality which conflicts strongly with the world of the father.
Which of us could assert, without endangering his sanity,
29 For water as origin, cf. Egyptian cosmogony, among others.
s0 Albrecht Wirth, Aus orientalischen Chroniken (Frankfurt am
Main, 1894), p. 199.
31 "A fountain sealed": Song of Songs 4 : 12.
32 This is really a normal life-process, but it usually takes place
quite unconsciously. The anima is an archetype that is always
present. The mother is the first carrier of the anima-image, which
gives her a fascinating quality in the eyes of the son. It is then
transferred, via the sister and similar figures, to the beloved.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 34s
that he had accepted the guidance of the unconscious in the
conduct of his life, assuming that anyone exists who could
imagine what that would mean? Anyone who could imagine
it at all would certainly have no difficulty in understanding
what a monstrous affront such a volte face would offer to
the traditional spirit, especially to the spirit that has put on
the earthly garment of the Church. It was this subtle change
of psychic standpoint that caused the old alchemists to re-
sort to deliberate mystification, and that sponsored all kinds
of heresies. Hence it is only logical for the father to reject
the dreamer — it amounts to nothing less than excommuni-
cation. (Be it noted that the dreamer is a Roman Catholic.)
By acknowledging the reality of the psyche and making it
a co-determining ethical factor in our lives, we offend
against the spirit of convention which for centuries has
regulated psychic life from outside by means of institutions
as well as by reason. Not that unreasoning instinct rebels of
itself against firmly established order; by the strict logic of
its own inner laws it is itself of the firmest structure imagin-
able and, in addition, the creative foundation of all bind-
ing order. But just because this foundation is creative, all
order which proceeds from it — even in its most "divine"
form — is a phase, a stepping-stone. Despite appearances
to the contrary, the establishment of order and the dissolu-
tion of what has been established are at bottom beyond hu-
man control. The secret is that only that which can destroy
itself is truly alive. It is well that these things are difficult
to understand and thus enjoy a wholesome concealment, for
weak heads are only too easily addled by them and thrown
into confusion. From all these dangers dogma — whether
ecclesiastical, philosophical, or scientific — offers effective
protection, and, looked at from a social point of view, ex-
communication is a necessary and useful consequence.
The water that the mother, the unconscious, pours into
the basin belonging to the anima is an excellent symbol for
the living power of the psyche. The old alchemists never
tired of devising new and expressive synonyms for this
346 ' Psychology and Alchemy
water. They called it aqua nostra, mercurius vivus, argen*
turn vivum, vinum ardens, aqua vitae, succus lunariae, and
so on, by which they meant a living being not devoid of
substance, as opposed to the rigid immateriality of mind in
the abstract. The expression succus lunariae (sap of the
moon-plant) refers clearly enough to the nocturnal origin
of the water, and aqua nostra, like mercurius vivus, to' its
earthliness. Acetum fontis is a powerful corrosive water
that dissolves all created things and at the same time leads
to the most durable of all products, the mysterious lapis.
These analogies may seem very far-fetched. But let me
refer the reader to dreams 13 and 14 in the next section,
where the water symbolism is taken up again. The impor-
tance of the action "for the outside world," noted by the
dreamer himself, points to the collective significance of the
dream, as also does the fact — which had a far-reaching in-
fluence on the conscious attitude of the dreamer — that he
is "rejected by the father."
The saying "extra ecclesiam nulla salus" — outside the
Church there is no salvation — rests on the knowledge that
an institution is a safe, practicable highway with a visible
or definable goal, and that no paths and no goals can be
found outside it. We must not underestimate the devas-
tating effect of getting lost in the chaos, even if we know
that it is the sine qua non of any regeneration of the spirit
and the personality.
16. Dream:
An ace of clubs lies before the dreamer. A seven appears
beside it.
The ace, as "1," is the lowest card but the highest in
value. The ace of clubs, being in the form of a cross, points
to the Christian symbol. 33 Hence in Swiss-German the club
is often called Chruuz (cross). At the same time the three
leaves contain an allusion to the threefold nature of the one
God. Lowest and highest are beginning and end, alpha and
omega.
33 Cf. dream 23 of second series.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 347
The seven appears after the ace of clubs and not
before. Presumably the idea is: first the Christian con-
ception of God, and then the seven (stages). The seven
stages symbolize the transformation which begins with
the symbolism of Cross and Trinity, and, judging by the
earlier archaic allusions in dreams 7 and 13, culminates
in the solificatio. But this solution is not hinted at here.
Now, we know that the regression to the Helios of anti-
quity vainly attempted by Julian the Apostate was suc-
ceeded in the Middle Ages by another movement that
was expressed in the formula "per crucem ad rosam"
(through the cross to the rose), which was later condensed
into the "Rosie Crosse" of the Rosicrucians. Here the es-
sence of the heavenly Sol descends into the flower — earth's
answer to the sun's countenance. The solar quality has sur-
vived in the symbol of the "golden flower" of Chinese
alchemy. 34 The well-known "blue flower" of the Romantics
might well be the last nostalgic perfume of the "rose"; it
looks back in true Romantic fashion to the medievalism of
ruined cloisters, yet at the same time modestly proclaims
something new in earthly loveliness. But even the golden
brilliance of the sun had to submit to a descent, and it
found its analogy in the glitter of earthly gold — although,
as aurum nostrum, this was far removed from the gross
34 Concerning the "golden flower" of medieval alchemy, see
Adolphus Senior, Azoth, she Aureliae occultae philosophorum
(Frankfurt, 1613). The golden flower comes from the Greek
XpvaavBiov (Berthelot, op. cit., Vol. lll.xlix, p. 19) and xpvv* v Q € n° v
= "golden flower," a magical plant like the Homeric /xu>Xu, which
is often mentioned by the alchemists. The golden flower is ihc
noblest and purest essence of gold. The same name is sometimes
given to pyrites. [Cf. Edmund O. von Lippmann, Entstchung und
Ausbreitimg der Alchemie (Berlin, 1919-31, 2 vols.), Vol. I, p.
70]. The strength of the aqua pertnanens is also called flos,
"flower" (Ruska, ed., Turba, op. cit., p. 214, 20). Flos is used by
later alchemists to express the mystical transforming substance.
(Cf. "flos citrinus" in Aurora consurgens; "flos aeris aureus" in
"Consil. coniug., Ars chemicaT (Strassburg, 1566), p. 167; "flos
est aqua nummosa [Mercurius]" in "Allcgoriae sapicntum," Thca-
trum chemicum, Vol. 5 (1622), p. 81; "flos opcris est lapis" in
Johann Daniel Mylius, Philosophia reformata (Frankfurt, 1622),
P- 30.
34$ •' Psychology and Alchemy
materiality of the metal, at least for subtler minds. One of
the most interesting of the alchemical texts is the Rosarium
philosophorum, subtitled Secunda pars alchimiae de lapide
philosophico vero modo praeparando. . . . Cum figuris rei
perfectionem ostendentibus (1550). 35 The anonymous au-
thor was very definitely a "philosopher" and was appar-
ently aware that alchemy was not concerned with ordinary
goldmaking but with a philosophical secret. For these al-
chemists the gold undoubtedly had a symbolic nature 36 and
was therefore distinguished by such attributes as vitreum or
philosophicum. It was probably owing to its all too obvious
analogy with the sun that gold was denied the highest philo-
sophical honour, which fell instead to the lapis philoso-
phorum. The transformer is above the transformed, and
transformation is one of the magical properties of the mar-
vellous stone. The Rosarium philosophorum says: "For
our stone, namely the living western quicksilver which has
placed itself above the gold and vanquished it, is that which
kills and quickens." 37 As to the "philosophical" signifi-
cance of the lapis, the following quotation from a treatise
ascribed to Hermes is particularly enlightening: "Under-
stand, ye sons of the wise, what this exceeding precious
stone proclaims . . . 'And my light conquers every light,
and my virtues are more excellent than all virtues. ... I
beget the light, but the darkness too is of my na-
ture. . . ; " 3 8
33 Reprinted in Artis auriferae (Basel 1593, 2 vols.), Vol. II, pp.
204ff. and Joannes Jacobus Magnetus, ed., Bibliotheca chemica
curiosa (Geneva, 1702, 2 vols.), Vol. II, pp. 87!!. My quotations are
usually taken from the 1593 version.
30 As the Rosarium says: "Aurum nostrum non est aurum vulgi"
(Our gold is not the common gold). Art. aurif., II, p. 220.
87 "Quia lapis noster scilicet argentum vivum occidentale, quod
praetulit se auro et vicit illud, et illud quod occidit et vivere facit."
Ibid., p. 223.
38 "Intelligite, filii sapientum, quod hie lapis preciosissimus clamat,
. . . et lumen meum omne lumen superat ac mea bona omnibus
bonis sunt sublimiora. . . . Ego gigno lumen, tenebrae autem natu-
rae meae sunt. . . ." Ibid., p. 239. Concerning the Hermes quotations
in Rosarium, see infra, p. 369, n. 68.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 349
17. Dream:
The dreamer goes for a long walk, and finds a blue flower
on the way.
To go for a walk is to wander along paths that lead no-
where in particular; it is both a search and a succession of
changes. The dreamer finds a blue flower blossoming aim-
lessly by the wayside, a chance child of nature, evoking
friendly memories of a more romantic and lyrical age, of
the youthful season when it came to bud, when the scien-
tific view of the world had i>ot yet broken away from the
world of actual experience — or rather when this break
was only just beginning and the eye looked back to what
was already the past. The flower is in fact like a friendly
sign, a numinous emanation from the unconscious, show-
ing the dreamer, who as a modern man has been robbed of
security and of participation in all the things that lead to
man's salvation, the historical place where he can meet
friends and brothers of like mind, where he can find the
seed that wants to sprout in him too. But the dreamer
knows nothing as yet of the old solar gold which connects
the innocent flower with the obnoxious black art of alchemy
and with the blasphemous pagan idea of the solificatio. For
the "golden flower of alchemy" can sometimes be a blue
flower: "The sapphire blue flower of the hermaphrodite/' 3a
18. Dream:
A man offers him some golden coins in his outstretched
hand. The dreamer indignantly throws them to the ground
and immediately afterwards deeply regrets his action. A
variety performance then takes place in an enclosed space.
The blue flower has already begun to drag its history
after it. The "gold" is ofTercd and is indignantly refused.
Such a misinterpretation of the aurum philosophhum is
easy to understand. But hardly has it happened when there
comes a pang of remorse that the precious secret has been
TO "Epistola ad Hcrmannum," Thcair. clum., V, p. 899.
350 : Psychology and Alchemy
rejected and a wrong answer given to the riddle of the
Sphinx. The same thing happened to the hero in Meyrink's
Golem, when the ghost offered him a handful of grain
which he spurned. The gross materiality of the yellow metal
with its odious fiscal flavour, and the mean look of the
grain, make both rejections comprehensible enough — but
that is precisely why it is so hard to find the lapis: it is
exilis, uncomely, it is thrown out into the street or on the
dunghill, it is the commonest thing to be picked up any-
where — "in planitie, in montibus et aquis." It has this "or-
dinary" aspect in common with Spitteler's jewel in Prome-
theus and Epimetheus, which, for the same reason, was also
not recognized by the worldly wise. But "the stone which
the builders rejected, the same is become the head of the
corner," and the intuition of this possibility arouses the
liveliest regret in the dreamer.
It is all part of the banality of its outward aspect that
the gold is minted, i.e., shaped into coins, stamped, and
valued. Applied psychologically, this is just what Nietzsche
refuses to do in his Zarathustra: to give names to the vir-
tues. By being shaped and named, psychic life is broken
down into coined and valued units. But this is possible only
because it is intrinsically a great variety of things, an accu-
mulation of unintegrated hereditary units. Natural man is
not a "self" — he is the mass and a particle in the mass, col-
lective to such a degree that he is not even sure of his own
ego. That is why since time immemorial he has needed the
transformation mysteries to turn him into something, and
to rescue him from the animal collective psyche, which is
nothing but a variete.
But if we reject this unseemly variete of man "as he is,"
it is impossible for him to attain integration, to become a
self. 40 And that amounts to spiritual death. Life that just
40 This does not mean that the self is created, so to speak, only
during the course of life; it is rather a question of its becoming
conscious. The self exists from the very beginning, but is latent, that
is, unconscious. Cf. my later explanations.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 35/
happens in and for itself is not real life; it is real only when
it is known. Only a unified personality can experience life,
not that personality which is split up into partial aspects,
that bundle of odds and ends which also calls itself "man."
The dangerous plurality already hinted at in dream 4 is
compensated in vision 5, where the snake describes a magic
circle and thus marks off the taboo area, the temenos. In
much the same way and in a similar situation the temenos
reappears here, drawing the "many" together for a united
variety performance — a gathering that has the appearance
of an entertainment, though it will shortly lose its entertain-
ing character: the "play of goats" will develop into a "trag-
edy." According to all the analogies, the satyr play was a
mystery performance, from which we may assume that its
purpose, as everywhere, was to re-establish man's connec-
tion with his natural ancestry and thus with the source of
life, much as the obscene stories, aiVxpoAoyia, told by
Athenian ladies at the mysteries of Eleusis, were thought
to promote the earth's fertility. 41 (Cf. also Herodotus' ac-
count 42 of the exhibitionistic performances connected with
the Isis festivities at Bubastis.)
The allusion to the compensatory significance of the
temenos, however, is still wrapped in obscurity for the
dreamer. As might be imagined, he is much more con-
cerned with the danger of spiritual death, which is conjured
up by his rejection of the historical context.
19. Visual impression:
A deaths-head. The dreamer wants to kick it away t but
cannot. The skull gradually changes into a red ball, then
into a woman's head which emits light.
The skull soliloquies of Faust and of Hamlet are remind-
ers of the appalling senselessness of human life when
"sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought." It was tradi-
tional opinions and judgments that caused the dreamer to
"Paul Francois Foucart, Les Mysteres d'Eleusis (Paris, 1914).
"Histories, Vol. II, p. 58; translated by Powell, Vol. I, p. 137-
352 : Psychology and Alchemy
dash aside the doubtful and uninviting-looking offerings.
But when he tries to ward off the sinister vision of the
death's-head it is transformed into a red ball, which we may
take as an allusion to the rising sun, since it at once
changes into the shining head of a woman, reminding us
directly of vision 7. Evidently an enantiodromia, a play of
opposites, 43 has occurred: after being rejected the uncon-
scious insists on itself all the more strongly. First it pro-
duces the classical symbol for the unity and divinity of the
self, the sun; then it passes to the motif of the unknown
woman who personifies the unconscious. Naturally this
motif includes not merely the archetype of the anima but
also the dreamer's relationship to a real woman, who is
both a human personality and a vessel for psychic projec-
tions. ("Basin of the sister" in dream 15.)
In Neoplatonic philosophy the soul has definite affinities
with the sphere. The soul substance is laid round the con-
centric spheres of the four elements above the fiery
heaven. 44
20. Visual impression:
A globe. The unknown woman is standing on it and wor-
shipping the sun.
This impression, too, is an amplification of vision 7. The
rejection in dream 18 evidently amounted to the destruction
of the whole development up to that point. Consequently
the initial symbols reappear now, but in amplified form.
Such enantiodromias are characteristic of dream-sequences
in general. Unless the conscious mind intervened, the un-
conscious would go on sending out wave after wave with-
43 For this term, see Editor's Introduction to this volume, p. xxvi
— J.C.
44 Cf. Heinrich Leberecht Fleischer, Hermes Trismegistus an die
Menschliche Seele (Leipzig, 1970), p. 6; also the spherical form of
Plato's Original Man and the a0aipos of Empedocles. As in the
Timaeus, the alchemical anima mundi, like the "soul of the sub-
stances," is spherical, and so is the gold. (See Michael Maier, De
circulo physico quadrato [Oppenheim, 1616], pp. I if.) For the con-
nection between the rotundum and the skull or head, see Jung,
"Transformation Symbolism in the Mass" {Collected Works, Vol.
u),pp. 239ff.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 353
out result, like the treasure that is said to take nine years,
nine months, and nine nights to come to the surface and, if
not found on the last night, sinks back to start all over
again from the beginning.
The globe probably comes from the idea of the red ball.
But, whereas this is the sun, the globe is rather an image of
the earth, upon which the anima stands worshipping the
sun. Anima and sun are thus distinct, which points to the
fact that the sun represents a different principle from that
of the anima. The latter is a personification of the uncon-
scious, while the sun is a symbol of the source of life and
the ultimate wholeness of man (as indicated in the solifi-
catio). Now, the sun is an antique symbol that is still very
close to us. We know also that the early Christians had
some difficulty in distinguishing the :?yAio<? avaToXfjs (the ris-
ing sun) from Christ. 45 The dreamer's anima still seems to
be a sun-worshipper, that is to say, she belongs to the
ancient world, and for the following reason: the conscious
mind with its rationalistic attitude has taken little or no
interest in her and therefore made it impossible for the
anima to become modernized (or better, Christianized). It
almost seems as if the differentiation of the intellect that
began in the Christian Middle Ages, as a result of scholastic
training, had driven the anima to regress to the ancient
world. The Renaissance gives us evidence enough for this,
the clearest of all being the Hypnerotomachia of Francesco
Colonna, where Poliphilo meets his anima, the lady Polia,
at the court of Queen Venus, quite untouched by Christian-
ity and graced with all the "virtues" of antiquity. The book
was rightly regarded as a mystery text. 40 With this anima,
then, we plunge straight into the ancient world. So that I
45 Cf. St. Augustine's argument that God is not this sun but he who
made the sun (In Joannis Evong. Tract., XXXIV, 2) and the evidence
of Eusebius, who actually witnessed "Christian" sun-worship (Con-
slant in i O ratio ad Sanctorum Cochim, VI; Jacques Paul Mitfnc,
Patrologiae cursus completus, Greek scries [1 857-66, 166 vols.),
Vol. 20, cols. 1245-50).
*°Beroaldc de Vcrvillc, in his introduction ["Recucil steganogri-
phiquc") to the French translation (1600) of Hypnaotonunhm,
plainly adopts this view.
354 •' Psychology and Alchemy
would not think anyone mistaken who interpreted the rejec-
tion of the gold in dream 18 ex efjectu as an attempt to
escape this regrettable and unseemly regression to antiquity,
Certain vital doctrines of alchemical philosophy go back
textually to late Greco-Roman syncretism, as Ruska, for
instance, has sufficiently established in the case of the
Turba. Hence any allusion to alchemy wafts one back to
the ancient world and makes one suspect regression to
pagan levels,
It may not be superfluous to point out here, with due
emphasis, that consciously the dreamer had no inkling of
all this. But in his unconscious he is immersed in this sea
of historical associations, so that he behaves in his dreams
as if he were fully cognizant of these curious excursions
into the history of the human mind. He is in fact an un-
conscious exponent of an autonomous psychic develop-
ment, just like the medieval alchemist or the classical Neo-
platonist. Hence one could say — cum grano salis — that
history could be constructed just as easily from one's own
unconscious as from the actual texts.
2/, Visual impression:
The dreamer is surrounded by nymphs, A voice says,
"We were always there, only you did not notice us."
Here the regression goes back even further, to an image
that is unmistakably classical. At the same time the situ-
ation of dream 4 is taken up again and also the situation of
dream 18, where the rejection led to the compensatory
enantiodromia in vision 19. But here the image is amplified
by the hallucinatory recognition that the drama has always
existed although unnoticed until now. The realization of
this fact joins the unconscious psyche to consciousness as a
coexistent entity. The phenomenon of the "voice" in
dreams always has for the dreamer the final and indis-
putable character of the cujtos ec£a, 47 i.e., the voice expresses
" "He said [it] himself," The phrase originally alluded to the authority
of Pythagoras.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 355
some truth or condition that is beyond all doubt. The fact
that a sense of the remote past has been established, that
contact has been made with the deeper layers ol the psyche,
is accepted by the unconscious personality of the dreamer
and communicates itself to his conscious mind as a feeling
of comparative security.
Vision 20 represents the anima as a sun-worshipper. She
has as it were stepped out of the globe or spherical form.
But the first spherical form was the skull. According to
tradition the head or brain is the seat of the anima intellcc-
tualis. For this reason too the alchemical vessel must be
round like the head, so that what comes out of the vessel
shall be equally "round," i.e., simple and perfect like the
anima mundi. 48 The work is crowned by the production of
the rotundum, which, as the materia globosa, stands at the
beginning and also at the end, in the form of gold. Possibly
the nymphs who "were always there" are an allusion to this.
The regressive character of the vision is also apparent from
the fact that there is a multiplicity of female forms, as in
dream 4. But this time they are of a classical nature,
which, like the sun-worship in vision 20, points to an his-
torical regression. The splitting of the anima into many
figures is equivalent to dissolution into an indefinite state,
i.e., into the unconscious, from which we may conjecture
that a relative dissolution of the conscious mind is running
parallel with the historical regression (a process to be ob-
served in its extreme form in schizophrenia). The dissolu-
tion of consciousness or, as Janet calls it, abaissement du
niveau mental, comes very close to the primitive state of
mind. A parallel to this scene with the nymphs is to be
48 Cf. "Liber PJatonis quartorum," Thcatr. cfwm., V, pp. I4yfi*-. 174.
This treatise is a Harranitc text of great importance for the history
of alchemy. It exists in Arabic and Latin, but the latter version is
unfortunately very corrupt. The original was piobably written in
the tenth century. Cf. Moritz Stcinschncider, "Die curop&ischCft
Ubcrsctzungcn aus dem Arabischcn bis Mute des 17. Jahthuntlei is."
Sitzttngsberichte dvr kahet lichen Akadenue dcr Wi&scnschajttn in
Wien, Philowphisch-hhtorische Klasse, CL (1904), 1-84. CL1
(1904), 1-108.
35$ •' Psychology and Alchemy
found in the Paracelsan regio nymphididica, mentioned in
the treatise De vita longa as the initial stage of the individu-
ation process. 49
22. Visual impression:
In a primeval forest. An elephant looms up menacingly.
Then a large ape-man, bear, or cave-man threatens to at-
tack the dreamer with a club. Suddenly the "man with the
pointed beard" appears and stares at the aggressor, so that
he is spellbound. But the dreamer is terrified. The voice
says, ''Everything must be ruled by the light."
The multiplicity of nymphs has broken down into still
more primitive components; that is to say, the animation of
the psychic atmosphere has very considerably increased,
and from this we must conclude that the dreamer's isola-
tion from his contemporaries has increased in proportion.
This intensified isolation can be traced back to vision 21,
where the union with the unconscious was realized and ac-
cepted as a fact. From the point of view of the conscious
mind this is highly irrational; it constitutes a secret which
must be anxiously guarded, since the justification for its
existence could not possibly be explained to any so-called
reasonable person. Anyone who tried to do so would be
branded as a lunatic. The discharge of energy into the envi-
ronment is therefore considerably impeded, the result being
a surplus of energy on the side of the unconscious: hence
the abnormal increase in the autonomy of the unconscious
figures, culminating in aggression and real terror. The ear-
lier entertaining variety performance is beginning to be-
come uncomfortable. We find it easy enough to accept the
classical figures of nymphs thanks to their aesthetic embel-
lishments; but we have no idea that behind these gracious
figures there lurks the Dionysian mystery of antiquity, the
satyr play with its tragic implications: the bloody dismem-
berment of the god who has become an animal. It needed a
49 Cf. "Paracelsus as a Spiritual Phenomenon" (Collected Works,
Vol. 13), par. 214.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : ^57
Nietzsche to expose in all its feebleness Europe's schoolboy
attitude to the ancient world. But what did Dionysus mean
to Nietzsche? What he says about it must be taken seri-
ously; what it did to him still more so. There can be no
doubt that he knew, in the preliminary stages of his fatal
illness, that the dismal fate of Zagreus was reserved for
him. Dionysus is the abyss of impassioned dissolution,
where all human distinctions are merged in the animal
divinity of the primordial psyche — a blissful and terrible
experience. Humanity, huddling behind the walls of its cul-
ture, believes it has escaped this experience, until it suc-
ceeds in letting loose another orgy of bloodshed. All well-
meaning people are amazed when this happens and blame
high finance, the armaments industry, the Jews, or the Free-
masons
no
At the last moment, friend "Pointed Beard" appears on
the scene as an obliging dens ex machina and exorcizes the
annihilation threatened by the formidable ape-man. Who
knows how much Faust owed his imperturbable curiosity,
as he gazed on the spooks and bogeys of the classical Wal-
purgisnacht, to the helpful presence of Mephisto and his
matter-of-fact point of view! Would that more people could
remember the scientific or philosophical reflections of the
much-abused intellect at the right moment! Those who
abuse it lay themselves open to the suspicion of never
having experienced anything that might have taught them
its value and shown them why mankind has forged this
weapon with such unprecedented effort. One has to be
singularly out of touch with life not to notice such things.
The intellect may be the devil, but the devil is the "strange
son of chaos" who can most readily be trusted to deal effec-
tively with his mother. The Dionysian experience will give
this devil plenty to do should he be looking for work, since
the resultant settlement with the unconscious far outweighs
the labours of Hercules. In my opinion it presents a whole
world of problems which the intellect could not settle even
60 1 wrote this passage in spring, 1935.
3j5 ; Psychology and Alchemy
in a hundred years — the very reason why it so often goes
off for a holiday to recuperate on lighter tasks. And this is
also the reason why the psyche is forgotten so often and so
long, and why the intellect makes such frequent use of
magical apotropaic words like "occult" and "mystic," in the
hope that even intelligent people will think that these mut-
terings really mean something.
The voice finally declares, "Everything must be ruled by
the light," which presumably means the light of the dis-
cerning, conscious mind, a genuine illuminatio honestly ac-
quired. The dark depths of the unconscious are no longer to
be denied by ignorance and sophistry — at best a poor dis-
guise for common fear — nor are they to be explained away
with pseudo-scientific rationalizations. On the contrary it
must now be admitted that things exist in the psyche about
which we know little or nothing at all, but which neverthe-
less affect our bodies in the most obstinate way, and that
they possess at least as much reality as the things of the
physical world which ultimately we do not understand
either. No line of research which asserted that its subject
was unreal or a "nothing but" has ever made any contribu-
tion to knowledge.
With the active intervention of the intellect a new phase
of the unconscious process begins: the conscious mind
must now come to terms with the figures of the unknown
woman ("anima"), the unknown man ("the shadow"), the
wise old man ("mana personality"), 51 and the symbols of
the self. The last named are dealt with in the following
section.
51 "Wise Old Man": archetype of the Wisdom of Life personified as
initiator. See below, Dream 14 (p. 342). "Mana personality":
archetype of the mighty man in the form of hero, chief, magician,
medicine-man, saint, ruler of men and spirits, friend of God. See
Two Essays on Analytical Psychology (Collected Works, Vol. 7),
pars. 376 ff. — J. C.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : ^59
3. The Symbolism of the Mandala
I. Concerning the Mandala
As I have already said, I have put together, out of a
continuous series of some four hundred dreams and visions,
all those that I regard as mandala dreams. The term
"mandala" was chosen because this word denotes the ritual
or magic circle used in Lamaism and also in Tantric yoga
as a yantra or aid to contemplation. The Eastern mandalas
360 : Psychology and Alchemy
used in ceremonial are figures fixed by tradition; they may
be drawn or painted or, in certain special ceremonies, even
represented plastically. 52
In 1938, I had the opportunity, in the monastery of
Bhutia Busty, near Darjeeling, of talking with a Lamaic
rimpoche, Lingdam Gomchen by name, about the khilkor
or mandala. He explained it as a dmigs-pa (pronounced
"migpa"), a mental image which can be built up only by
a fully instructed lama through the power of imagination.
He said that no mandala is like any other, they are all
individually different. Also, he said, the mandalas to be
found in monasteries and temples were of no particular
significance because they were external representations
only. The true mandala is always an inner image, which
is gradually built up through (active) imagination, at such
times when psychic equilibrium is disturbed or when a
thought cannot be found and must be sought for, because
it is not contained in holy doctrine. The aptness of this
explanation will become apparent in the course of my
exposition. The alleged free and individual formation of
the mandala, however, should be taken with a considerable
grain of salt, since in all Lamaic mandalas there predomi-
nates not only a certain unmistakable style but also a tra-
ditional structure. For instance they are all based on a
quaternary system, a quadratura circuli, and their contents
are invariably derived from Lamaic dogma. There are texts,
such as the Shri-Chakra-Sambhara Tantra, 53 which contain
directions for the construction of these "mental images."
The khilkor is strictly distinguished from the so-called
sidpe-korlo y or World Wheel, which represents the course
of human existence in its various forms as conceived by
the Buddhists. In contrast to the khilkor, the World Wheel
52 Cf. Richard Wilhelm and C.G.Jung, The Secret of the Golden
Flower, translated by Cary F. Baynes (London and New York,
1 931), and Heinrich Zimmer, Myths and Symbols in Indian Art
and Civilization, Joseph Campbell, ed., Bollingen Series VI (New
York, 1946).
53 Arthur Avalon, The Serpent Power (London, 1919), VII.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 361
is based on a ternary system in that the three world-
principles are to be found in its centre: the cock, equalling
concupiscence; the serpent, hatred or envy; and the pig,
ignorance or unconsciousness (avidya). Here we come
upon the dilemma of three and four, which also crops up
in Buddhism. We shall meet this problem again in the
further course of our dream-series.
It seems to me beyond question that these Eastern sym-
bols originated in dreams and visions, and were not in-
vented by some Mahayana church father. On the contrary,
they are among the oldest religious symbols of humanity
and may even have existed in paleolithic times (cf. the
Rhodesian rock-paintings). Moreover they are distributed
all over the world, a point I need not insist on here. In this
section I merely wish to show from the material at hand
how mandalas come into existence.
The mandalas used in ceremonial are of great signifi-
cance because their centres usually contain one of the
highest religious figures: either Shiva himself — often in
the embrace of Shakti — or the Buddha, Amitabha, Ava-
lokiteshvara, or one of the great Mahayana teachers, or
simply the dorje, symbol of all the divine forces together,
whether creative or destructive. The text of the Golden
Flower, a product of Taoist syncretism, specifics in addi-
tion certain "alchemical" properties of this centre after the
manner of the lapis and the elixir vitae, so that it is in effect
a. (frdpixaKov d#ara<7tas- 54
It is not without importance for us to appreciate the
high value set upon the mandala, for it accords very well
with the paramount significance of individual mandala
symbols which are characterized by the same qualities of
a — so to speak — "metaphysical" nature. 55 Unless every-
54 Cf. Richard Rcitzcnstcin, Die hellenistischen Mysterienreligioncn
(Leipzig, 1910).
"The quotation marks indicate that I am not positing anything by
the term "metaphysical": I am only using it figuratively, in the
psychological sense, to characterize the peculiar statements made by
dreams.
362 : Psychology and Alchemy
thing deceives us, they signify nothing less than a psychic
centre of the personality not to be identified with the ego.
I have observed these processes and their products for
close on thirty years on the basis of very extensive ma-
terial drawn from my own experience. For fourteen years
I neither wrote nor lectured about them so as not to
prejudice my observations. But when, in 1929, Richard
Wilhelm laid the text of the Golden Flower before me, I
decided to publish at least a foretaste of the results. One
cannot be too cautious in these matters, for what with
the imitative urge and a positively morbid avidity to pos-
sess themselves of outlandish feathers and deck themselves
out in this exotic plumage, far too many people are misled
into snatching at such "magical" ideas and applying them
externally, like an ointment. People will do anything, no
matter how absurd, in order to avoid facing their own
souls. They will practise Indian yoga and all its exercises,
observe a strict regimen of diet, learn theosophy by heart,
or mechanically repeat mystic texts from the literature of
the whole world — all because they cannot get on with
themselves and have not the slightest faith that anything
useful could ever come out of their own souls. Thus the
soul has gradually been turned into a Nazareth from which
nothing good can come. Therefore let us fetch it from
the four corners of the earth — the more far-fetched and
bizarre it is the better! I have no wish to disturb such peo-
ple at their pet pursuits, but when anybody who expects
to be taken seriously is deluded enough to think that I use
yoga methods and yoga doctrines or that I get my patients,
whenever possible, to draw mandalas for the purpose of
bringing them to the "right point" — then I really must pro-
test and tax these people with having read my writings with
the most horrible inattention. The doctrine that all evil
thoughts come from the heart and that the human soul is
a sink of iniquity must lie deep in the marrow of their
bones. Were that so, then God had made a sorry job of
creation, and it were high time for us to go over to Marcion
Dream Symbolism In Relation to Alchemy : 363
the Gnostic and depose the incompetent demiurge. Eth-
ically, of course, it is infinitely more convenient to leave
God the sole responsibility for such a Home for Idiot
Children, where no one is capable of putting a spoon into
his own mouth. But it is worth man's while to take pains
with himself, and he has something in his soul that can
grow. 50 It is rewarding to watch patiently the silent hap-
penings in the soul, and the most and the best happens
when it is not regulated from outside and from above. I
readily admit that I have such a great respect for what
happens in the human soul that I would be afraid of dis-
turbing and distorting the silent operation of nature by
clumsy interference. That was why I even refrained from
observing this particular case myself and entrusted the
task to a beginner who was not handicapped by my
knowledge — anything rather than disturb the process. The
results which I now lay before you are the unadulterated,
conscientious, and exact self-observations of a man of un-
erring intellect, who had n6thing suggested to him from
outside and who would in any case not have been open
to suggestion. Anyone at all familiar with psychic material
will have no difficulty in recognizing the authentic char-
acter of the results.
//. The Mandalas in the Dreams
For the sake of completeness I will recapitulate the
mandala symbols which occur in the initial dreams and
visions already discussed:
/. The snake that described a circle round the dreamer
(5).
2. The blue flower (17).
50 As Mcistcr Eckhart says, "It is not outside, it is inside: wholly
within." Meister Eckhart, translated by C. dc B.Evans (London,
1924, 2 vols.), Vol. I, p. 8.
364 : Psychology and Alchemy
3. The man with the gold coins in his hand, and the
enclosed space for a variety performance (18).
4. The red ball (19).
5. The globe (20).
The next mandala symbol occurs in the first dream of
the new series: 57
6. Dream:
An unknown woman is pursuing the dreamer. He keeps
running round in a circle.
The snake in the first mandala dream was anticipatory,
as is often the case when a figure personifying a certain
aspect of the unconscious does or experiences something
that the subject himself will experience later. The snake
anticipates a circular movement in which the subject is
going to be involved; i.e., something is taking place in the
unconscious which is perceived as a circular movement, and
this occurrence now presses into consciousness so forcefully
that the subject himself is gripped by it. The unknown
woman or anima representing the unconscious continues to
harass the dreamer until he starts running round in circles.
This clearly indicates a potential centre which is not iden-
tical with the ego and round which the ego revolves.
7. Dream:
The anima accuses the dreamer of paying too little atten-
tion to her. There is a clock that says five minutes to the
hour.
The situation is much the same: the unconscious pesters
him like an exacting woman. The situation also explains the
clock, for a clock's hands go round in a circle. Five minutes
to the hour implies a state of tension for anybody who lives
by the clock: when the five minutes are up he must do
something or other. He might even be pressed for time.
57 [Inasmuch as the five mandala dreams and visions listed above
necessarily figure in this new series (though actually part of the first
dream-series), the author initiated the number sequence of the new —
i.e., the mandala — series with them. — Editors of The Collected
Works.]
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 365
(The symbol of circular movement is always connected
with a feeling of tension, as we shall see later.)
8. Dream:
On board ship. The dreamer is occupied with a new
method of taking his bearings. Sometimes he is too far
away and sometimes too near; the right spot is in the middle.
There is a chart on which is drawn a circle with its centre.
Obviously the task set here is to find the centre, the right
spot, and this is the centre of a circle. While the dreamer
was writing down this dream he remembered that he had
dreamed shortly before of shooting at a target: sometimes
he shot too high, sometimes too low. The right aim lay
in the middle. Both dreams struck him as highly significant.
The target is a circle with a centre. Bearings at sea are
taken by the apparent rotation of the stars round the earth.
Accordingly the dream describes an activity whose aim is
to construct or locate an objective centre — a centre outside
the subject.
p. Dream:
A pendulum clock that goes forever without the weights
running down.
This is a species of clock whose hands move unceasingly,
and, since there is obviously no loss due to friction, it is a
perpctuum mobile, an everlasting movement in a circle.
Here we meet with a "metaphysical" attribute. As I have
already said, I use this word in a psychological sense, hence
figuratively. I mean by this that eternity is a quality pred-
icated by the unconscious, and not a hypostasis. The
statement made by the dream will obviously ofTend the
dreamer's scientific judgment, but this is just what gi\cs
the mandala its peculiar significance. Highly significant
things arc often rejected because they seem to contradict
reason and thus set it too arduous a test. The movement
without friction shows that the clock is cosmic, even tran-
scendental; at any rate it raises the question of a quality
which leaves us in some doubt whether the ps)chic phc-
366 : Psychology and Alchemy
nomenon expressing itself in the mandala is under the laws
of space and time. And this points to something so entirely
different from the empirical ego that the gap between them
is difficult to bridge; i.e., the other centre of personality lies
on a different plane from the ego since, unlike this, it has
the quality of "eternity" or relative timelessness.
io. Dream:
The dreamer is in the Peterhofstatt in Zurich with the
doctor, the man with the pointed beard, and the "doll
woman." The last is an unknown woman who neither
speaks nor is spoken to. Question: To which of the three
does the woman belong?
The tower of St. Peter's in Zurich has a clock with a
strikingly large face. The Peterhofstatt is an enclosed space,
a temenos in the truest sense of the word, a precinct of the
church. The four of them find themselves in this enclosure.
The circular dial of the clock is divided into four quarters,
like the horizon. In the dream the dreamer represents his
own ego, the man with the pointed beard the "employed"
intellect (Mephisto), and the "doll woman" the anima.
Since the doll is a childish object it is an excellent image
for the non-ego nature of the anima, who is further charac-
terized as an object by "not being spoken to." This negative
element (also present in dreams 6 and 7 above) indicates
an inadequate relationship between the conscious mind
and the unconscious, as also does the question of whom
the unknown woman belongs to. The "doctor," too, belongs
to the non-ego; he probably contains a faint allusion to my-
self, although at that time I had no connections with the
dreamer. 58 The man with the pointed beard, on the other
hand, belongs to the ego. This whole situation is reminiscent
of the relations depicted in the diagram of functions. If
we think of the psychological function 50 as arranged
in a circle, then the most differentiated function is usually
58 As the dream at most alludes to me and does not name me, the un-
conscious evidently has no intention of emphasizing my personal role.
59 Cf. supra, p. xxviii, also, infra, pp. 382, note 95 and 383.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 367
the carrier of the ego and, equally regularly, has an aux-
iliary function attached to it. The "inferior" function, on
the other hand, is unconscious and for that reason is pro-
jected into a non-ego. It too has an auxiliary function.
Hence it would not be impossible for the four persons in
the dream to represent the four functions as components
of the total personality (i.e., if we include the unconscious).
But this totality is ego plus non-ego. Therefore the centre
of the circle which expresses such a totality would corre-
spond not to the ego but to the self as the summation of
the total personality. (The centre with a circle is a very
well-known allegory of the nature of God.) In the phi-
losophy of the Upanishads the Self is in one aspect the
personal atman, but at the same time it has a cosmic and
metaphysical quality as the suprapersonal Atman. 60
We meet with similar ideas in Gnosticism: I would men-
tion the idea of the Anthropos, the Pleroma, the Monad,
and the spark of light (Spinther) in a treatise of the Codex
Brucianus:
This same is he [Monogenes] who dwelleth in the Monad,
which is in the Setheus, and which came from the place of
which none can say where it is. . . . From Him it is the
Monad came, in the manner of a ship, laden with all
good things, and in the manner of a field, filled or planted
with every kind of tree, and in the manner of a city,
filled with all races of mankind. . . . This is the fashion
of the Monad, all these being in it: there are twelve Mon-
ads as a crown upon its head. . . . And to its veil which
surroundeth it in the manner of a defence [wvpym -
tower] there are twelve gates. . . . This same is
the Mother-City [/xr/TpdVoAis] of the Only-begotten
[p.ovoy(.vr)si\. Ql
By way of explanation I should add that "Setheus" is a
name for God, meaning "creator." The Monogenes is the
•°Paul Deussen, Allgemeine Geschichte tier Philosophic (Leipzig,
1906, 2 vols.), Vol. I.
61 Charlotte Augusta Bayncs, A Coptic Gnostic Treatise Contained
in the Codex Brucianus— Brute MS 96. Bodleian Library, Oxford
(Cambridge, England, 1933), p. 89.
j68 : Psychology and Alchemy
Son of God. The comparison of the Monad with a field
and a city corresponds to the idea of the temenos. Also,
the Monad is crowned (cf. the hat which appears in dream
i of the first series and dream 35 of this series) . As "metrop-^
olis" the Monad is feminine, like the padma or lotus, the
basic form of the Lamaic mandala (the Golden Flower in
China and the Rose or Golden Flower in the West). The
Son of God, God made manifest, dwells in the flower. 62
In the Book of Revelation, we find the Lamb in the centre
of the Heavenly Jerusalem. And in our Coptic text we are
told that Setheus dwells in the innermost and holiest re-
cesses of the Pleroma, a city with four gates (equivalent
to the Hindu City of Brahma on the world-mountain
Meru). In each gate there is a Monad. 03 The limbs of the
Anthropos born of the Autogenes (= Monogenes) corre-
spond to the four gates of the city. The Monad is a spark
of light (Spinther) and an image of the Father, identical
with the Monogenes. An invocation runs: "Thou art the
House and the Dweller in the House." ° 4 The Monogenes
stands on a tetrapeza,^ a table or platform with four pillars
corresponding to the quaternion of the four evangelists. 66
The idea of the lapis has several points of contact with
all this. In the Rosarium the lapis says, quoting Hermes: 67
02 The Buddha, Shiva, etc., in the lotus; Christ in the rose, in the
womb of Mary (ample material on this theme in Anselm Salzer,
Die Sinnbihier und Beiworte Martens in der deutschen Literatur und
lateinischen Hymnen — Poesie des Mittehdters [Linz, 1893]); the seed-
ing-place of the diamond body in the golden flower. Cf. the cir-
cumainbulation of the square in dream 16.
0:5 Baynes, A Coptic Gnostic Treatise, p. 58. Cf. the Vajramandala,
where the great dorje is found in the center surrounded by the twelve
smaller dorjes, like the one Monad with the "twelve Monads as a
crown upon its head." Moreover there is a dorje in each of the
four gates.
01 Ibid., p. 94.
65 Ibid., p. 70. Similar to the tetramorph, the steed of the Church.
60 Cf. Irenaeus, Adversus haereses, 111, xi, and Clement of Alexan-
dria, Stromata, V, vi.
07 Art. aw if., II, pp. 239! The Hermes quotations come from the
fourth chapter of "Tractatus aureus 1 ' {Ars chemica, pp. 23f., or Bibl.
chem., 1, pp. 427f.).
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 369
"I beget the light, but the darkness too is of my nature
. . . therefore nothing better or more worthy of venera-
tion can come to pass in the world than the conjunction of
myself and my son." 68 Similarly, the Monogenes is called
the "dark light," CD a reminder of the sol niger, the black
sun of alchemy. 70
The following passage from Chapter 4 of the "Tractatus
aureus" provides an interesting parallel to the Monogenes
who dwells in the bosom of the Mother-City and is identical
with the crowned and veiled Monad:
But the king reigns, as is witnessed by his brothers, [and]
says: "I am crowned, and I am adorned with the diadem;
I am clothed with the royal garment, and I bring joy to
the heart; for, being chained to the arms and breast of my
mother, and to her substance, I cause my substance to
hold together and rest; and I compose the invisible from
the visible, making the occult to appear; and everything
that the philosophers have concealed will be generated
from us. Hear then these words, and understand them;
keep them, and meditate upon them, and seek for nothing
more. Man is generated from the principle of Nature
whose inward parts are fleshy, and from no other sub-
stance."
The "king" refers to the lapis. That the lapis is the "mas-
68 "Ego gigno lumen, tenebrae autem naturae meae sunt ... me igi-
tur et filio meo conjuncto, nihil melius ac venerabilius in mundo fieri
potest." The Hermes sayings as quoted by the anonymous author of
the Rosarium contain deliberate alterations that have far more sig-
nificance than mere faulty readings. They are authentic recastings, to
which he lends higher authority by attributing them to Hermes. I
have compared the three printed editions of the "Tractatus aureus,"
1566, 1610, and 1702, and found that they all agree. The Rosarium
quotation runs as follows in the "Tractatus aureus": "lam Venus ait:
I£go genero lumen, nee tenebrae mcac naturae sunt ... me igitur ct
fratri meo iunctis nihil melius ac venerabilius" (Venus says: I beget
the light, and the darkness is not of my nature . . . therefore nothing
is better or more worthy of veneration than the conjunction of
myself and my brother).
cu Baynes, A Coptic Gnostic Treatise, p. 87.
70 Cf. Johann Daniel Mylius, Philosophia reformata (Frankfurt,
1622), p. 19.
370 : Psychology and Alchemy
ter" is evident from the following Hermes quotation in the
Rosarium: 11 "Et sic Philosophus non est Magister lapidis,
sed potius minister" (And thus the philosopher is not the
master of the stone but rather its minister). Similarly the
final production of the lapis in the form of the crowned
hermaphrodite is called the aenigma regis. 12 A German
verse refers to the aenigma as follows:
Here now is born the emperor of all honour
Than whom there cannot be born any higher,
Neither by art nor by the work of nature
Out of the womb of any living creature.
Philosophers speak of him as their son
And everything they do by him is done. 73
The last two lines might easily be a direct reference to
the above quotation from Hermes.
It looks as if the idea had dawned on the alchemists that
the Son who, according to classical (and Christian) tradi-
tion, dwells eternally in the Father and reveals himself as
God's gift to mankind, was something that man could
produce out of his own nature — with God's help, of course
(Deo concedente) . The heresy of this idea is obvious.
The feminine nature of the inferior function derives from
its contamination with the unconscious. Because of its
feminine characteristics the unconscious is personified by
the anima (that is to say, in men; in women it is mas-
culine). 74
If we assume that this dream and its predecessors really
do mean something that justly arouses a feeling of signifi-
cance in the dreamer, and if we further assume that this
significance is more or less in keeping with the views put
forward in the commentary, then we would have reached
here a high point of introspective intuition whose boldness
leaves nothing to be desired. But even the everlasting pen-
71 Art. aurif., II, p. 356.
72 Ibid., p. 359.
73 Ibid.
74 Cf. supra, pp. 148-62.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 371
dulum clock is an indigestible morsel for a consciousness
unprepared for it, and likely to hamper any too lofty flight
of thought.
//. Dream:
The dreamer, the doctor, a pilot, and the unknown
woman are travelling by airplane. A croquet ball suddenly
smashes the mirror, an indispensable instrument of naviga-
tion, and the airplane crashes to the ground. Here again
there is the same doubt: to whom does the unknown woman
belong?
Doctor, pilot, and unknown woman are characterized as
belonging to the non-ego by the fact that all three of them
are strangers. Therefore the dreamer has retained possession
only of the differentiated function, which carries the ego;
that is, the unconscious has gained ground considerably.
The croquet ball is part of a game where the ball is driven
under a hoop. Vision 8 of the first series said that people
should not go over the rainbow (fly?), but must go under
it. Those who go over it fall to the ground. It looks as
though the flight had been too lofty after all. Croquet is
played on the ground and not in the air. We should not
rise above the earth with the aid of "spiritual" intuitions
and run away from hard reality, as so often happens with
people who have brilliant intuitions. We can never reach
the level of our intuitions and should therefore not identify
ourselves with them. Only the gods can pass over the rain-
bow bridge; mortal men must stick to the earth and arc
subject to its laws. In the light of the possibilities revealed
by intuition, man's earthliness is certainly a lamentable
imperfection; but this very imperfection is part of his innate
being, of his reality. He is compounded not only of his
best intuitions, his highest ideals and aspirations, but also
of the odious conditions of his existence, such as heredity
and the indelible sequence of memories that shout alter
him: "You did it, and that's what >ou are!" Man may
have lost his ancient saurian's tail, but in its stead he has
37 2 * Psychology and Alchemy
a chain hanging on to his psyche which binds him to the
earth — an anything-but-Homeric chain 75 of given con-
ditions which weigh so heavy that it is better to remain
bound to them, even at the risk of becoming neither a
hero nor a saint. (History gives us some justification for
not attaching any absolute value to these collective norms.)
That we are bound to the earth does not mean that we
cannot grow; on the contrary it is the sine qua non of
growth. No noble, well-grown tree ever disowned its dark
roots, for it grows not only upward but downward as well.
The question of where we are going is of course extremely
important; but equally important, it seems to me, is the
question of who is going where. The "who" always implies
a "whence." It takes a certain greatness to gain lasting
possession of the heights, but anybody can overreach him-
self. -The difficulty lies in striking the dead centre (cf.
dream 8). For this an awareness of the two sides of man's
personality L essential, of their respective aims and origins.
These two aspects must never be separated through arro-
gance or cowardice.
The "mirror" as an "indispensable instrument of naviga-
tion" doubtless refers to the intellect, which is able to think
and is constantly persuading us to identify ourselves with
its insights ("reflections"). The mirror is one of Schopen-
hauer's favourite similes for the intellect. The term "instru-
ment of navigation" is an apt expression for this, since it
is indeed man's indispensable guide on pathless seas. But
when the ground slips from under his feet and he begins
to speculate in the void, seduced by the soaring flights of in-
tuition, the situation becomes dangerous.
Here again the dreamer and the three dream figures
form a quaternity. The unknown woman or anima always
represents the "inferior," i.e., the undifferentiated function,
75 The Homeric chain in alchemy is the series of great wise men,
beginning with Hermes Trismegistus, which links earth with heaven.
At the same time it is the chain of substances and different chemical
states that appear in the course of the alchemical process. Cf. Aurea
catena Homeri (Frankfurt and Leipzig, 1723).
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 373
which in the case of our dreamer is feeling. The croquet
ball is connected with the "round" motif and is therefore
a symbol of wholeness, that is, of the self, here shown to be
hostile to the intellect (the mirror). Evidently the dreamer
"navigates" too much by the intellect and thus upsets the
process of individuation. In De vita longa, Paracelsus de-
scribes the "four" as Scaiolae, but the self as Adcch (from
Adam — the first man). Both, as Paracelsus emphasizes,
cause so many difficulties in the "work" that one can almost
speak of Adech as hostile. 70
12. Dream:
The dreamer finds himself with his father, mother, and
sister in a very dangerous situation on the platform of a
tram-car.
Once more the dreamer forms a quaternity with the
other dream figures. He has fallen right back into child-
hood, a time when we are still a long way from wholeness.
Wholeness is represented by the family, and its components
are still projected upon the members of the family and
personified by them. But this state is dangerous for the
adult because regressive: it denotes a splitting of person-
ality which primitive man experiences as the perilous "loss
of soul." In the break-up the personal components that have
been integrated with such pains are once more sucked into
the outside world. The individual loses his guilt and ex-
changes it for infantile innocence; once more he can blame
the wicked father for this and the unloving mother for
that, and all the time he is caught in this inescapable causal
nexus like a fly in a spider's web, without noticing that he
has lost his moral freedom. 77 But no matter how much
78 Jung, "Paracelsus as a Spiritual Phenomenon" {Collected Works,
Vol. 13), pars. 2091T.
"Mcistcr Eckhart says: " 4 I came not upon caiih to bring peace but
a sword; to cut away all things, to part thee from broihcr, child,
mother and friend, which arc really thy foes.' For verily thy comfort*
arc thy foes. Doth tl.inc eye sec all things and thine car hear all
things and thy heart remember them all, then in these thing"* thy
soul is destroyed." — Eckhait, op. cil., Vol. I, pp. 12-13.
374 • Psychology and Alchemy
parents and grandparents may have sinned against the
child, the man who is really adult will accept these sins as
his own condition which has to be reckoned with. Only
a fool is interested in other people's guilt, since he cannot
alter it. The wise man learns only from his own guilt. He
will ask himself: Who am I that all this should happen
to me? To find the answer to this fateful question he will
look into his own heart.
As in the previous dream the vehicle was an airplane, so
hi this it is a tram. The type of vehicle in a dream illustrates
the kind of movement or the manner in which the dreamer
moves forward in time — in other words, how he lives his
psychic life, whether individually or collectively, whether
on his own or on borrowed means, whether spontaneously
or mechanically. In the airplane he is flown by an un-
known pilot; i.e., he is borne along on intuitions emanating
from the unconscious. (The mistake is that the "mirror" is
used too much to steer by.) But in this dream he is in a
collective vehicle, a tram, which anybody can ride in; i.e.,
he moves or behaves just like everybody else. All the same
he is again one of four, which means that he is in both
vehicles on account of his unconscious striving for whole-
ness.
13. Dream:
In the sea there lies a treasure. To reach it, he has to
dive through a narrow opening. This is dangerous, but
down below he will find a companion. The dreamer takes
the plunge into the dark and discovers a beautiful garden
in the depths, symmetrically laid out, with a fountain in the
centre.
The "treasure hard to attain" lies hidden in the ocean of
the unconscious, and only the brave can reach it. I con-
jecture that the treasure is also the "companion," the one
who goes through life at our side — in all probability a close
analogy to the lonely ego who finds a mate in the self, for
at first the self is the strange non-ego. This is the theme of
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 27 S
the magical travelling companion, of whom I will give three
famous examples: the disciples on the road to Emmaus,
Krishna and Arjuna in the Bhagavad Gita, Moses and
El-Khidr in Sura 18 of the Koran. 78 1 conjecture further
that the treasure in the sea, the companion, and the garden
with the fountain are all one and the same thing: the self.
For the garden is another temenos, and the fountain is the
source of "living water" mentioned in John 7 : 38, which
the Moses of the Koran also sought and found, and beside
it El-Khidr, 79 "one of Our servants whom We had endowed
with Our grace and wisdom" (Sura 18). And the legend
has it that the ground round about El-Khidr blossomed
with spring flowers, although it was desert. In Islam, the
plan of the temenos with the fountain developed under
the influence of early Christian architecture into the court
of the mosque with the ritual wash-house in the centre
(e.g., Ahmed ibn-Tulun in Cairo). We see much the same
thing in our Western cloisters with the fountain in the
garden. This is also the "rose garden of the philosophers,"
which we know from the treatises on alchemy and from
many beautiful engravings. "The Dweller in the House"
(cf. commentary to dream 10) is the "companion." The
centre and the circle, here represented by fountain and
garden, are analogues of the lapis, which is among other
things a living being. In the Rosarium the lapis says:
"Protege me, protegam te. Largire mihi ius meum, ut te
adiuvem" (Protect me and I will protect you. Give me my
due that I may help you). 80 Here the lapis is nothing less
than a good friend and helper who helps those that help
him, and this points to a compensatory relationship. (I
79 Cf. Jung, "Concerning Rebirth" (Collected Works, Vol. 9.1), PP.
I35ff.
79 Karl Vollers, "Chidher," Archiv fiir Religions Wissenschaft (Leip-
zig), Xll (1909), 235.
m Art. aurif., II, p. 239. This is a Hermes quotation from ihc "Tracta-
tus aureus," but in the edition of 1566 (Ars chemuu) it runs:
"Largiri vis mihi meum ut adiuvem te" (You want to give mc freely
what is mine, that 1 may help you).
37$ •* Psychology and Alchemy
would call to mind what was said in the commentary to
dream 10, more particularly the Monogenes-Zap/.s-self par-
allel.)
The crash to earth thus leads into the depths of the sea,
into the unconscious, and the dreamer reaches the shelter
of the temenos as a protection against the splintering of
personality caused by his regression to childhood. The
situation is rather like that of dream 4 and vision 5 in the
first series, where the magic circle warded off the lure of
the unconscious and its plurality of female forms. (The
dangers of temptation approach Poliphilo in much the same
way at the beginning of his nekyia.)
The source of life is, like El-Khidr, a good companion,
though it is not without its dangers, as Moses of old found
to his cost, according to the Koran. It is the symbol of the
life force that eternally renews itself and of the clock that
never runs down. An uncanonical saying of our Lord runs:
"He who is near unto me is near unto the fire." 81 Just
as this esoteric Christ is a source of fire — probably not
without reference to the irvp ad t.Coov of Heraclitus — so the
alchemical philosophers conceive their aqua nostra to be
ignis (fire). 82 The source means not only the flow of life
but its warmth, indeed its heat, the secret of passion, whose
synonyms are always fiery. 83 The all-dissolving aqua nostra
is an essential ingredient in the production of the lapis.
81 A quotation from Arislolle in the Rosarium, Art. aurif., II, p. 317,
says: "Elige tibi pro lapide, per quern regcs venerantur in Diadema-
libus suis . . . quia ille est propinquus igni" (Choose for your stone
that through which kings are venerated in their crowns . . . because
that [stone] is near to the fire).
82 Cf. the treatise of Komarios, in which Cleopatra explains the
meaning of the water (Berthelot, Collection des anciens alchimistes
grecs, IV, xx).
M Rosarium, Art. aurif., II, p. 378: "Lapis noster hie est ignis ex igne
creatus et in ignem verlitur, et anima eius in igne moratur" (This
our stone is fire, created of fire, and turns into fire; its soul dwells
in fire). This may have been based on the following: "Item lapis
nosier, hoc est ignis ampulla, ex igne creatus est, et in cum vertitur"
(Likewise this our stone, i.e., the flask of fire, is created out of fire
and turns back into it). — "Allegoriae sapientum," Bibl. chem. curiosa,
I, p. 468a.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : ^77
But the source is underground and therefore the way leads
underneath: only down below can we find the fiery source
of life. These depths constitute the natural history of man,
his causal link with the world of instinct. Unless this link
be rediscovered no lapis and no self can come into being.
14. Dream:
The dreamer goes into a chemist's shop with his father.
Valuable things can be got there quite cheap, above all a
special water. His father tells him about the country the
water comes from. Afterwards he crosses the Rubicon by
train.
The traditional apothecary's shop, with its carboys and
gallipots, its waters, its lapis divinus and infcrnalis and its
magisteries, is the last visible remnant of the kitchen para-
phernalia of those alchemists who saw in the donum spiritus
sancti — the precious gift — nothing beyond the chimera of
goldmaking. The "special water" is literally the aqua nostra
non vulgi. 8 * It is easy to understand why it is his father
who leads the dreamer to the source of life, since he is
the natural source of the latter's life. We could say that
the father represents the country or soil from which that
life sprang. But figuratively speaking, he is the "informing
spirit" who initiates the dreamer into the meaning of life
and explains its secrets according to the teachings of old.
He is a transmitter of the traditional wisdom. But nowadays
the fatherly pedagogue fulfils this function only in the
dreams of his son, where he appears as the archetypal
father figure, the "wise old man."
84 Aqua nostra is also called aqua pcrmanens, corresponding to the
C5u>p dilov of Ihe Greeks: "aqua pcrmanens, ex qua quidem aqua
lapis nostcr preiiosissimus gencratur," wc read in ihe "Tuiba philoso-
phorum," Art is auriferae, Vol. I, p. 14- "Lapis cnim est hacc ipsa
pcrmanens aqua ct dum aqua esl, lapis non est" (For the Hon
this selfsame permanent water; and while it is water it is ru.»t the
stone). — Ibid., p. 16. The commonness of the "water" is \ci> often
emphasized, as fci instance in ibid., p. 30. "Quod quaenmu
minimo prelio vcnditur, et si nosccrctur, nc tantillum v
mcrcatorcs" (What we arc seeking is sold publicly for a \cr» small
price, and if it were recognized, the merchants would not sell it for
so little).
jy8 : Psychology and Alchemy
The water of life is easily had: everybody possesses it,
though without knowing its value. "Spernitur a stultis" — it
is despised by the stupid, because they assume that every
good thing is always outside and somewhere else, and that
the source in their own souls is a "nothing but." Like the
lapis, it is "pretio quoque vilis," of little price, and there-
fore, like the jewel in Spitteler's Prometheus, it is rejected
by everyone from the high priest and the academicians
down to the very peasants, and "in viam eiectus," flung out
into the street, where Ahasuerus picks it up and puts it
into his pocket. The treasure has sunk down again into the
unconscious.
But the dreamer has noticed something and with vigorous
determination crosses the Rubicon. He has realized that
the flux and fire of life are not to be underrated and are
absolutely necessary for the achievement of wholeness. But
there is no recrossing the Rubicon.
15. Dream:
Four people are going down a river: the dreamer, his
father, a certain friend, and the unknown woman.
In so far as the "friend" is a definite person well known
to the dreamer, he belongs, like the father, to the conscious
world of the ego. Hence something very important has
happened: in dream 11 the unconscious was three against
one, but now the situation is reversed and it is the dreamer
who is three against one (the latter being the unknown
woman). The unconscious has been depotentiated. The
reason for this is that by "taking the plunge" the dreamer
has connected the upper and the lower regions — that is to
say, he has decided not to live only as a bodiless abstract
being but to accept the body and the world of instinct,
the reality of the problems posed by love and life, and to
act accordingly. 85 This was the Rubicon that was crossed.
M The alchemists give only obscure hints on this subject, e.g., the
quotation from Aristotle in Rosarium (Art. aurif., II, p. 318): "Fili,
accipere debes de pinguiori carne" (Son, you must take of the fatter
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 379
Individuation, becoming a self, is not only a spiritual
problem, it is the problem of all life.
16. Dream:
Many people are present. They are all walking to the left
around a square. The dreamer is not in the centre but to
one side. They say that a gibbon is to be reconstructed.
Here the square appears for the first time. Presumably it
arises from the circle with the help of the four people.
(This will be confirmed later.) Like the lapis, the tinctura
rubea, and the aurum philosophicum, the squaring of the
circle was a problem that greatly exercised medieval minds.
It is a symbol of the opus alchymicum, since it breaks down
the original chaotic unity into the four elements and then
combines them again in a higher unity. Unity is represented
by a circle and the four elements by a square. The produc-
tion of one from four is the result of a process of distillation
and sublimation which takes the so-called "circular' 1 form:
the distillate is subjected to sundry distillations*' 5 so that the
"soul" or "spirit" shall be extracted in its purest state. The
product is generally called the tk quintesscnce, ,, though this
is by no means the only name for the ever-hoped-for and
never-to-be-discovcrcd "One." It has, as the alchemists say,
a "thousand names," like the prima materia. Heinrich
Khunrath has this to say about the circular distillation:
•Through Circumrotation or a Circular Philosophical re-
volving of the Quaternarius, it is brought back to the high-
est and purest Simplicity of the plusquamperfect Catholic
Monad. . . . Out of the gross and impure One there
cometh an exceeding pure and subtile One," and so forth. 87
flesh). And in the "Tractatus aureus;' Chap. IV, we read "Homo a
principio naturae gcncratur, cuius viscera e.wnca sunt" (Man is gen-
erated from the principle of Nature whu*c inward parts arc fleshs )
*°Cf. "Paracelsus as a Spiritual Phenomenon" (Coilecittt Works,
Vol. 13), pars. i8sfT.
* T Heinrich Conrad Khunrath, Von hylealUchen, ila\ i\t, pninatciuil-
ischen catholischcn, oder allgemcinem tiatmluhcn Lliaos (Magde-
burg, I597)i P 204.
380 : Psychology and Alchemy
Soul and spirit must be separated from the body, and this
is equivalent to death: "Therefore Paul of Tarsus saith,
Cupio dissolvi, et esse cum Christo. 88 Therefore, my dear
Philosopher, must thou catch the Spirit and Soul of the
Magnesia." 89 The spirit (or spirit and soul) is the temarius
or number three which must first be separated from its
body and, after the purification of the latter, infused back
into it. 90 Evidently the body is the fourth. Hence Khunrath
refers to a passage from Pseudo-Aristotle, 91 where the
circle re-emerges from a triangle set in a square. 92 This
circular figure, together with the Uroboros — the dragon
devouring itself tail first — is the basic mandala of alchemy.
The Eastern and more particularly the Lamaic mandala
usually contains a square ground-plan of the stupa. We
can see from the mandalas constructed in solid form that
it is really the plan of a building. The square also conveys
the idea of a house or temple, or of an inner walled-in
Rs ". . . having a desire to be dissolved and to be with Christ" (Phil.
(D.V.) 1 : 23).
80 The "magnesia" of the alchemists has nothing to do with magnesia
(MgO). In Khunrath (ibid., p. 161) it is the "materia coelestis et
divina," i.e., the "materia lapidis Philosophorum," the arcane or
transforming substance.
00 Ibid., p. 203.
91 Ibid., p. 207.
02 There is a figurative representation of this idea in Michael Maier,
Scrutinium chymicum (Frankfurt am Main, 1687), Emblema XXI.
But Maier interprets the temarius differently. He says (p. 63):
"Similiter volunt Philosophi quadrangulum in triangulum ducen-
dum esse, hoc est, in corpus, spiritum et animam, quae tria in trinis
coloribus ante rubedinem praeviis apparent, utpote corpus seu terra in
Saturni nigredine, spiritus in lunari albedine, tanquam aqua, anima
sive aer in solari citrinitate. Turn triangulus perfectus erit, sed hie
vicissim in circulum mutari debet, hoc est in rubedinem invaria-
bilem." (Similarly the philosophers maintain that the quadrangle is
to be reduced to a triangle, that is, to body, spirit, and soul. These
three appear in three colours which precede the redness: the body,
or earth, in Saturnine blackness; the spirit in lunar whiteness, like
water; and the soul, or air, in solar yellow. Then the triangle will be
perfect, but in its turn it must change into a circle, that is into
unchangeable redness.) Here the fourth is fire, and an everlasting
fire.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 381
space™ (cf. below). According to the ritual, stupas must
always be circumambulated to the right, because a leftward
movement is evil. The left, the "sinister" side, is the uncon-
scious side. Therefore a leftward movement is equivalent to
a movement in the direction of the unconscious, whereas
a movement to the right is "correct" and aims at conscious-
ness. In the East these unconscious contents have gradually,
through long practice, come to assume definite forms which
have to be accepted as such and retained by the conscious
mind. Yoga, so far as we know it as an established practice,
proceeds in much the same way: it impresses fixed forms
on consciousness, its most important Western parallel is
the Exercitia spiritualia of Ignatius Loyola, which likewise
impress fixed concepts about salvation on the psyche. This
procedure is "right" so long as the symbol is still a valid
expression of the unconscious situation. The psychological
Tightness of both Eastern and Western yoga ceases oniy
when the unconscious process — which anticipates future
modifications of consciousness — has developed so far that
it produces shades of meaning which are no longer ade-
quately expressed by, or are at variance with, the traditional
symbol. Then and only then can one say that the symbol
has lost its "rightness." Such a process signifies a gradual
shift in man's unconscious view of the world over the
centuries and has nothing whatever to do with intellectual
criticisms of this view. Religious symbols are phenomena
of life, plain facts and not intellectual opinions. If the
Church clung for so long to the idea that the sun rotates
round the earth, and then abandoned this contention in the
nineteenth century, she can always appeal to the psycholog-
ical truth that for millions of people the sun did revolve
round the earth and that it was only in the nineteenth cen-
tury that any major portion of mankind became sufficiently
" l Cf. "city" and "castle" in commentary to dream 10 The alchemists
similarly understand the rotuiulum arising out of the square as the
oppidum (city). See Acgidius dc Vadis, "Dialogus inter naturam ct
filium Philosophiae," Theatrum chemkum, Vol. 2, p. 115.
382 : Psychology and Alchemy
sure of the intellectual function to grasp the proofs of the
earth's planetary nature. Unfortunately there is no "truth"
unless there are people to understand it.
Presumably the leftward circumambulation of the square
indicates that the squaring of the circle is a stage on the
way to the unconscious, a point of transition leading to a
goal lying as yet unformulated beyond it. It is one of those
paths to the centre of the non-ego which were also trodden
by the medieval investigators when producing the lapis.
The Rosarium says: 94 "Out of man and woman make a
round circle and extract the quadrangle from this and from
the quadrangle the triangle. Make a round circle and you
will have the philosophers' stone." 95
94 A quotation attributed to Pseudo-Aristotle ("Tractatus Aristotelis,"
Theatr. chem., V, pp. 88off.), but not traceable.
95 In the Tractatus aureus . . . cum Scholiis Dominici Gnosii (1610),
p. 43, there is a drawing of the "secret square of the sages." In the
centre of the square is a circle surrounded by rays of light. The
scholium gives the following explanation: "Divide lapidem tuum in
quatuor elementa . . . et coniunge in unum et totum habebis magis-
terium" (Reduce your stone to the four elements . . . and unite
them into one and you will have the whole magistery) — a quotation
from Pseudo-Aristotle. The circle in the centre is called "mediator,
pacem faciens inter inimicos sive elementa imo hie solus . efficit
quadraturam circuli" (the mediator, making peace between enemies,
or [the four] elements; nay rather he alone effects the squaring of
the circle). — Ibid., p. 44. The circumambulation has its parallel in
the "circulatio spirituum sive distillatio circularis, hoc est exterius
intro, interius foras: item inferius et superius, simul in uno circulo
conveniant, neque amplius cognoscas, quid vel exterius, vel interius,
inferius vel superius fuerit: sed omnia sint unum in uno circulo sive
vase. Hoc enim vas est Pelecanus verus Philosophicus, nee alius est in
toto mundo quaerendus." (. . . circulation of spirits or circular distil-
lation, that is, the outside to the inside, the inside to the outside, like-
wise the lower and the upper; and when they meet together in one
circle, you could no longer recognize what
was outside or inside, or lower or upper; but
all would be one thing in one circle or
vessel. For this vessel is the true philosophical
Pelican, and there is no other to be sought
for in all the world.) This process is eluci-
dated by the accompanying drawing. The
little circle is the "inside," and the circle
divided into four is the "outside": four riv-
ers flowing in and out of the inner "ocean."
— Ibid., pp. 262f.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 383
The modern intellect naturally regards all this as poppy-
cock. But this estimate fails to get rid of the fact that such
concatenations of ideas do exist and that they even played
an important part for many centuries. It is up to psychology
to understand these things, leaving the layman to rant about
poppycock and obscurantism. Many of my critics who call
themselves "scientific" behave exactly like the bishop who
excommunicated the cockchafers for their unseemly pro-
liferation.
Just as the stupas preserve relics of the Buddha in their
innermost sanctuary, so in the interior of the Lamaic quad-
rangle, and again in the Chinese earth-square, there is a
Holy of Holies with its magical agent, the cosmic source
of energy, be it the god Shiva, the Buddha, a bodhisattva,
or a great teacher. In China it is Tien — heaven — with the
four cosmic effluences radiating from it. And equally in the
Western mandalas of medieval Christendom the deity is
enthroned at the centre, often in the form of the triumphant
Redeemer together with the four symbolical figures of the
evangelists. The symbol in our dream presents the most
violent contrast to these highly metaphysical ideas, for it is
a gibbon, unquestionably an ape, that is to be reconstructed
in the centre. Here we meet again the ape who first turned
up in vision 22 of the first series. In that dream he caused
a panic, but he also brought about the helpful intervention
of the intellect. Now he is to be "reconstructed," and this
can only mean that the anthropoid — man as an archaic fact
— is to be put together again. Clearly the left-hand path
does not lead upwards to the kingdom of the gods and
eternal ideas, but down into natural history, into the bestial
instinctive foundations of human existence. We are there-
fore dealing, to put it in classical language, with a Dionysian
mystery.
The square corresponds to the temenos, where a drama
is taking place — in this case a play of apes instead of satyrs.
The inside of the "golden flower" is a "seeding-placc"
where the "diamond body" is produced. The synonymous
384 : Psychology* and Alchemy
term "the ancestral land" 06 may actually be a hint that
this product is the result of integrating the ancestral stages.
The ancestral spirits play an important part in primitive
rites of renewal. The aborigines of central Australia even
identify themselves with their mythical ancestors of the
alcheringa period, a sort of Homeric age. Similarly the
Pueblo Indians of Taos, in preparation for their ritual
dances, identify with the sun, whose sons they are. This
atavistic identification with human and animal ancestors
can be interpreted psychologically as an integration of the
unconscious, a veritable bath of renewal in the life-source
where one is once again a fish, unconscious as in sleep,
intoxication, and death. Hence the sleep of incubation, the
Dionysian orgy, and the ritual death in initiation. Naturally
the proceedings always take place in some hallowed spot.
We can easily translate these ideas into the concretism of
Freudian theory: the temenos would then be the womb
of the mother and the rite a regression to incest. But these
are the neurotic misunderstandings of people who have re-
mained partly infantile and who do not realize that such
things have been practised since time immemorial by adults
whose activities cannot possibly be explained as a mere
regression to infantilism. Otherwise the highest and most
important achievements of mankind would ultimately be
nothing but the perverted wishes of children, and the word
"childish" would have lost its raison d'etre.
Since the philosophical side of alchemy was concerned
with problems that are very closely related to those which
interest the most modern psychology, it might perhaps be
worth while to probe a little deeper into the dream motif
of the ape that is to be reconstructed in the square. In the
overwhelming majority of cases alchemy identifies its trans-
forming substance with the argentum vivum or Mercurius.
Chemically this term denotes quicksilver, but philosophi-
cally it means the spiritus vitae, or even the world-soul,
so that Mercurius also takes on the significance of Hermes,
& Wilhelm and Jung, Secret of the Golden Flower (1962 edn.), p. 22.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : j8$
god of revelation. (This question has been discussed in
detail elsewhere.) 97 Hermes is associated with the idea of
roundness and also of squareness, as can be seen particularly
in Papyrus V (line 401) of the Papyri Graecae Magicae**
where he is named arpoyyvXo^ nal TerpdKojvo^ "round and
square." He is also called rcrpayAw^iv, "quadrangular." He
is in general connected with the number four; hence there
is a 'E/d/it/s Ter/3aAC£(/>aAcr?, a "four-headed Hermes." U9 These
attributes were known also in the Middle Ages, as the work
of Cartari, 100 for instance, shows. He says;
Again, the square figures of Mercury [Hermes], made
up of nothing but a head and a virile member, signify
that the Sun is the head of the world, and scatters the
seed of all things; while the four sides of the square
figure have the same significance as the four-stringed
sistrum which was likewise attributed to Mercury,
namely, the four quarters of the world or the four seasons
of the year; or again, that the two equinoxes and the two
soltices make up between them the four parts of the
whole zodiac.
It is easy to see why such qualities made Mercurius an
eminently suitable symbol for the mysterious transforming
substance of alchemy; for this is round and square, i.e., a
totality consisting of four parts (four elements). Conse-
quently the Gnostic quadripartite original man 101 as well
as Christ Pantokrator is an imago lapidis. Western alchemy
is mainly of Egyptian origin, so let us first of all turn our
attention to the Hellenistic figure of Hermes Trismegistus,
who, while standing sponsor to the medieval Mercurius,
97 Cf. Jung, "The Spirit Mercurius" (Collected Works, Vol. 13).
98 Karl Preisendanz, ed., Papyri Graecae Magicae (Leipzig, Berlin,
1928-31, 2 vols.), Vol. I, p. 195.
99 Cf. Carl F. H. Bruchmann, Epitheta deorum quae apud poetax
Graecas leguntur, Ausfiihrliches Lexikon der griechischen und to-
mische Mythologie, supplement (Leipzig, 1893). sv -
100 Vinccnzo Cartari, Les Images des dieux des anciens (Lyons,
1581), p. 403.
101 "Paracelsus as a Spiritual Phenomenon" (Collected Woikx, Vol.
13), pars. 168, 2061T.
386 : Psychology and Alchemy
derives ultimately from the ancient Egyptian Thoth. The
attribute of Thoth was the baboon, or again he was
represented outright as an ape. 102 This idea was visibly pre-
served all through the numberless editions of the Book of
the Dead right down to the most recent times. It is true that
in the existing alchemical texts — which with few exceptions
belong to the Christian era — the ancient connection between
Thoth-Hermes and the ape has disappeared, but it still
existed at the time of the Roman Empire. Mercurius, how-
ever, had several things in common with the devil — which
we will not enter upon here — and so the ape once more
crops up in the vicinity of Mercurius as the simia Dei, It
is of the essence of the transforming substance to be on
the one hand extremely common, even contemptible (this
is expressed in the scries of attributes it shares with the
devil, such as serpent, dragon, raven, lion, basilisk, and
eagle), but on the other hand to mean something of great
value, not to say divine. For the transformation leads from
the depths to the heights, from the bestially archaic and
infantile to the mystical homo maximus.
The symbolism of the rites of renewal, if taken seriously,
points far beyond the merely archaic and infantile to man's
innate psychic disposition, which is the result and deposit
of all ancestral life right down to the animal level — hence
the ancestor and animal symbolism. The rites are attempts
to abolish the separation between the conscious mind and
the unconscious, the real source of life, and to bring about
a reunion of the individual with the native soil of his in-
herited, instinctive make-up. Had these rites of renewal
not yielded definite results they would not only have died
out in prehistoric times but would never have arisen in
the first place. The case before us proves that even if the
conscious mind is miles away from the ancient conceptions
of the rites of renewal, the unconscious still strives to
bring them closer in dreams. It is true that without the
qualities of autonomy and autarky there would be no
102 E. Wallis Budge, The Gods of the Egyptians, Vol. I, pp. 21, 404.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : jSy
consciousness at all, yet these qualities also spell the danger
of isolation and stagnation since, hy splitting olT the un-
conscious, they bring about an unbearable alienation of
instinct. Loss of instinct is the source of endless error and
confusion.
Finally the fact that the dreamer is "not in the centre but
to one side" is a striking indication of what will happen
to his ego: it will no longer be able to claim the central
place but must presumably be satisfied with the position of
a satellite, or at least of a planet revolving round the sun.
Clearly the important place in the centre is reserved for
the gibbon about to be reconstructed. The gibbon belongs
to the anthropoids and, on account of its kinship with man,
is an appropriate symbol for that part of the psyche which
goes down into the subhuman. Further, we have seen from
the cynocephalus or dog-headed baboon associated with
Thoth-Hermes, the highest among the apes known to the
Egyptians, that its godlike affinities make it an equally
appropriate symbol for that part of the unconscious which
transcends the conscious level. The assumption that the
human psyche possesses layers that lie below consciousness
is not likely to arouse serious opposition. But that there
could just as well be layers lying above consciousness
seems to be a surmise which borders on a crimen lacuie
majestatis humanae. In my experience the conscious mind
can claim only a relatively central position and must ac-
cept the fact that the unconscious psyche transcends and
as it were surrounds it on all sides. Unconscious contents
connect it backwards with physiological states on the one
hand and archetypal data on the other. Hut it is extended
forwards by intuitions which are determined partly by
archetypes and partly by subliminal perceptions depending
on the relativity of time and space in the unconscious. I
must leave it to the reader, alter thorough considers
of this dream-scries and the problems it opens up, to form
his own judgment as to the possibility of such an hy-
pothesis.
388 : Psychology and Alchemy
The following dream is given unabridged, in its original
text:
17. Dream:
All the houses have something theatrical about them,
with stage scenery and decorations. The name of Bernard
Shaw is mentioned. The play is supposed to take place in
the distant future. There is a notice in English and German
on one of the sets:
This is the universal Catholic Church.
It is the Church of the Lord.
All those who feel that they are the instruments of the Lord
may enter.
Under this is printed in smaller letters: "The Church was
founded by Jesus and Paul" — like a firm advertising its
long standing.
I say to my friend, "Come on, let's have a look at this."
He replies, "I do not see why a lot of people have to get
together when they're feeling religious" I answer, "As a
Protestant you will never understand." A woman nods
emphatic approval. Then I see a sort of proclamation on
the wall of the church. It runs:
Soldiers!
When you feel you are under the power of the Lord,
do not address him directly. The Lord cannot be reached
by words. We also strongly advise you not to indulge
in any discussions among yourselves concerning the at-
tributes of the Lord. It is futile, for everything valuable
and important is ineffable.
(Signed) Pope . . . (Name illegible)
Now we go in. The interior resembles a mosque, more
particularly the Hagia Sophia: no seats — wonderful effect
of space; no images, only framed texts decorating the walls
(like' the Koran texts in the Hagia Sophia). One of the
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 3S9
texts reads "Do not flatter your benefactor." The woman
who had agreed with me before bursts into tears and cries,
"Then there's nothing left!" I reply, "I find it quite right!"
but she vanishes. At first I stand with a pillar in front of
me and can see nothing. Then I change my position and
see a crowd of people. I do not belong to them and stand
alone. But they are quite distinct, so that I can see their
faces. They all say in unison, "We confess that we are
under the power of the Lord. The Kingdom of Heaven is
within us." They repeat this three times with great solem-
nity. Then the organ starts to play and they sing a Bach
fugue with chorale. But the original text is omitted; some-
times there is only a sort of coloratura singing, then the
words are repeated: "Everything else is paper" (meaning
that it does not make a living impression on me). When
the chorale has faded away the gcmiitlich part of the cere-
mony begins; it is almost like a students' party. The people
are all cheerful and equable. We move about, converse,
and greet one another, and wine (from an episcopal semi-
nary) is served with other refreshments. The health of the
Church is drunk and, as if to express everybody's pleasure
at the increase in membership, a loudspeaker blares out a
ragtime melody with the refrain, "Charles is also with us
now." A priest explains to me: "These somewhat trivial
amusements are officially approved and permitted. We
must adapt a little to American methods. With a large
crowd such as we have here this is inevitable. But we differ
in principle from the American churches by our decidedly
anti-ascetic tendency." Thereupon I awake with a feeling
of great relief.
Unfortunately I must refrain from commenting on this
dream as a whole 103 and confine myself to our theme. The
temenos has become a sacred building (in accordance with
the hint given earlier). The proceedings are thus character-
ized as "religious." The grotesque-humorous side of the
lf *H was considered at length in my *T>ychology and Religion"
{Collected Works, Vol. 11), pp. 24H.
390 : Psychology and Alchemy
Dionysian mystery comes out in the so-called gemutlich
part of the ceremony, where wine is served and a toast
drunk to the health of the Church. An inscription on the
floor of an Orphic-Dionysian shrine puts it very aptly:
ixovov fir) v8wp (Only no water!). 104 The Dionysian relics in
the Church, such as the fish and wine symbolism, the
Damascus chalice, the seal-cylinder with the crucifix and
the inscription OP<I>EOC BAKKIKOC, 105 and much else
besides, can be mentioned only in passing.
The "anti-ascetic" tendency clearly marks the point of
difference from the Christian Church, here defined as
"American" (cf. commentary to dream 14 of the first
series). America is the ideal home of the reasonable ideas
of the practical intellect, which would like to put the
world to rights by means of a "brain trust." 106 This view
is in keeping with the modern formula "intellect = spirit,"
but it completely forgets the fact that "spirit" was never a
human "activity," much less a "function." The movement
to the left is thus confirmed as a withdrawal from the
modern world of ideas and a regression to pre-Christian
Dionysos worship, where "asceticism" in the Christian sense
is unknown. At the same time the movement does not lead
right out of the sacred spot but remains within it; in other
words it does not lose its sacramental character. It does
not simply fall into chaos and anarchy, it relates the
Church directly to the Dionysian sanctuary just as the
historical process did, though from the opposite direction.
104 Orphic mosaic from Tramithia (Robert Eisler, Orpheus — the
Fisher [London, 1921], pp. 27 iff.). We can take this inscription as
a joke without offending against the spirit of the ancient mysteries.
(Cf. the frescoes in the Villa dei Misteri in Pompeii — Amadeo Mai-
uri, La Villa dei Misteri [Rome, 1931, 2 vols.] — where the drunken-
ness and ecstasy are not only closely related but actually one and
the same thing.) But, since initiations have been connected with
healing since their earliest days, the advice may possibly be a warning
against water drinking, for it is well known that the drinking water
in southern regions is the mother of dysentery and typhoid fever.
103 Eisler, Orpheus— the Fisher, Plate XXXI.
106 This is roughly the opinion of the dreamer.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 391
We could say that this regressive development faithfully
retreads the path of history in order to reach the pre-
Christian level. Hence it is not a relapse but a kind of
systematic descent ad inferos, a psychological nekyia.
I encountered something very similar in the dream of a
clergyman who had a rather problematical attitude to his
faith: Coming into his church at night , he found that the
whole wall of the choir had collapsed. The altar and ruins
were overgrown with vines hanging full of grapes, and the
moon was shining in through the gap.
Again, a man who was much occupied with religious
problems had the following dream: An immense Gothic
cathedral, almost completely dark. High Mass is being
celebrated. Suddenly the whole wall of the aisle collapses.
Blinding sunlight bursts into the interior together with a
large herd of bulls and cows. This setting is evidently more
Mithraic, but Mithras is associated with the early Church
in much the same way Dionysos is.
Interestingly enough, the church in our dream is a syn-
cretistic building, for the Hagia Sophia is a very ancient
Christian church which, however, served as a mosque un-
til quite recently. It therefore fits in very well with the
purpose of the dream: to attempt a combination of Chris-
tian and Dionysian religious ideas. Evidently this is to
come about without the one excluding the other, without
any values being destroyed. This is extremely important,
since the reconstruction of the "gibbon" is to t>ke place in
the sacred precincts. Such a sacrilege might easily lead to
the dangerous supposition that the leftward movement is
a diabolica fraus and the gibbon the devil — for the devil
is in fact regarded as the "ape of God." The leftward
movement would then be a perversion of divine truth for
the purpose of setting up "His Black Majesty" in place of
God. But the unconscious has no such blasphemous inten-
tions; it is only trying to restore the lost Dionysos who is
somehow lacking in modern man (pace Nietzsche!) to the
world of religion. At the end of vision 22, where the ape
392 : Psychology and Alchemy
first appears, it was said that "everything must be ruled
by the light," and everything, we might add, includes the
Lord of Darkness with his horns and cloven hoof — actually
a Dionysian corybant who has rather unexpectedly risen
to the rank of Prince.
The Dionysian element has to do with emotions and
affects which have found no suitable religious outlets in
the predominantly Apollonian cult and ethos of Chris-
tianity. The medieval carnivals and jeux dc paume in the
Church were abolished relatively early; consequently the
carnival became secularized and with it divine intoxication
vanished from the sacred precincts. Mourning, earnestness,
severity, and well-tempered spiritual joy remained. But in-
toxication, that most direct and dangerous form of posses-
sion, turned away from the gods and enveloped the human
world with its exuberance and pathos. The pagan religions
met this danger by giving drunken ecstasy a place within
their cult. Heraclitus doubtless saw what was at the back
of it when he said, "But Hades is that same Dionysos in
whose honour they go mad and keep the feast of the wine-
vat." For this very reason orgies were granted religious
license, so as to exorcise the danger that threatened from
Hades. Our solution, however, has served to throw the
gates of hell wide open.
18. Dream:
A square space with complicated ceremonies going on
in it, the purpose of which is to transform animals into
men. Two snakes, moving in opposite directions, have to
be got rid of at once. Some animals are there, e.g., foxes
and dogs. The people walk round the square and must let
themselves be bitten in the calf by these animals at each of
the four corners. If they run away all is lost. Now the
higher animals come on the scene — bulls and ibexes. Four
snakes glide into the four corners. Then the congregation
files out. Two sacrificial piiests carry in a huge reptile and
with this they touch the forehead of a shapeless animal
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 393
lump or life-mass. Out of it there instantly rises a human
head, transfigured. A voice proclaims: "These are attempts
at being."
One might almost say that the dream goes on with the
"explanation" of what is happening in the square space.
Animals are to be changed into men; a "shapeless life-
mass" is to be turned into a transfigured (illuminated)
human head by magic contact with a reptile. The animal
lump or life-mass stands for the mass of the inherited un-
conscious which is to be united with consciousness. This
is brought about by the ceremonial use of a reptile, presum-
ably a snake. The idea of transformation and renewal by
means of a serpent is a well-substantiated archetype. It is
the healing serpent, representing the god. It is reported of
the mysteries of Sabazius: "Aureus coluber in sinum de-
mittitur consecratis et eximitur rursus ab inferioribus parti-
bus atque imis" (A golden snake is let down into the lap
of the initiated and taken away again from the lower
parts). 107 Among the Ophites, Christ was the serpent.
Probably the most significant development of serpent sym-
bolism as regards renewal of personality is to be found in
Kundalini yoga. 108 The shepherd's experience with the
snake in Nietzsche's Zarathustra would accordingly be a
fatal omen (and not the only one of its kind — cf. the
prophecy at the death of the rope-dancer).
The "shapeless life-mass" immediately recalls the ideas
of the alchemical "chaos," lo9 the massa or materia in-
formis or confusa which has contained the divine seeds of
life ever since the Creation. According to a midrashic view,
Adam was created in much the same way: in the first hour
"^Arnobius, Adversus gentes, V, 21 (Mignc, Pairologiae ...»
Laiin series [Paris, 1844-64, 221 vols.], Vol. 5, col. 1125). For sim-
ilar practices during the Middle Ages, cf. Joseph Hammcr-PurgMall,
Memoiie sur deux coflrets gnostiques du moyen fige (Paris, 1835).
lui Avalon, The Serpent Power; Sir John George WoodrolTc, Shakti
and Shakta (Madras, 1920).
,,w The alchemists refer lo Lactanlius, Opera, I, p. 14. 20: "a chao,
quod est rudis inordinatacquc mater iac confusa congeries" (from the
chaos, which is a confused assortment of ciudc disordered matter ).
394 ' Psychology and Alchemy
God collected the dust, in the second made a shapeless
mass out of it, in the third fashioned the limbs, and so
on.no
But if the life-mass is to be transformed a circumam-
bulatio is necessary, i.e., exclusive concentration on the
centre, the place of creative change. During this process
one is "bitten" by animals; in other words, we have to
expose ourselves to the animal impulses of the unconscious
without identifying with them and without "running away";
for flight from the unconscious would defeat the purpose
of the whole proceeding. We must hold our ground, which
means here that the process initiated by the dreamer's self-
observation must be experienced in all its ramifications
and then articulated with consciousness to the best of his
understanding. This often entails an almost unbearable ten-
sion because of the utter incommensurability between con-
scious life and the unconscious process, which can be ex-
perienced only in the innermost soul and cannot touch the
visible surface of life at any point. The principle of con-
scious life is: "Nihil est in intellectu, quod non prius fuerit
in sensu." But the principle of the unconscious is the au-
tonomy of the psyche itself, reflecting in the play of its
images not the world but itself, even though it utilizes the
illustrative possibilities offered by the sensible world in
order to make its images clear. The sensory datum, how-
ever, is not the causa efficiens of this; rather, it is au-
tonomously selected and exploited by the psyche, with the
result that the rationality of the cosmos is constantly being
violated in the most distressing manner. But the sensible
world has an equally devastating effect on the deeper
psychic processes when it breaks into them as a causa
efficiens. If reason is not to be outraged on the one hand
and the creative play of images not violently suppressed
on the other, a circumspect and farsighted synthetic pro-
cedure is required in order to accomplish the paradoxical
110 J. Dreyfuss, Adam und Eva nach der Auffassung des Midrasch
(Strassburg, 1894), quoted by Reitzenstein, Poimandres, p. 258.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 295
union of irreconcilables. Hence the alchemical parallels in
our dreams.
The focusing of attention on the centre demanded in
this dream and the warning about "running away" have
clear parallels in the opus akhymicum: the need to con-
centrate on the work and to meditate upon it is stressed
again and again. The tendency to run away, however, is
attributed not to the operator but to the transforming sub-
stance. Mercurius is evasive and is labelled servus (servant)
or cervus fugitivus (fugitive stag). The vessel must be well
sealed so that what is within may not escape. Eirenaeus
Philalethes 111 says of this servus: "You must be very wary
how you lead him, for if he can find an opportunity he
will give you the slip, and leave you to a world of mis-
fortune." n2 It did not occur to these philosophers that
they were chasing a projection, and that the more they
attributed to the substance the further away they were
getting from the psychological source of their expectations.
From the difference between the material in this dream
and its medieval predecessors we can measure the psy-
chological advance: the running away is now clearly ap-
parent as a characteristic of the dreamer, i.e., it is no
longer projected into the unknown substance. Running
away thus becomes a moral question. This aspect was
recognized by the alchemists in so far as they emphasized
the need for a special religious devotion at their work,
though one cannot altogether clear them of the suspicion
of having used their prayers and pious exercises for the
purpose of forcing a miracle — there are even some who
aspired to have the Holy Ghost as their familiar! 113 But,
to do them justice, one should not overlook the fact that
111 Pseudonymous author ("peaceable lover of truth") who lived in
England at the beginning of the 17th century.
"-Eirenaeus Philalethes, Ripley Re\i\'d; or An Exposition upon
Sir George Ripley's ffermetico-Poencal Work. . . . (London, 1678),
p. 100.
113 [Cf. Mysterhtm Coniunctionis (Collected Works, Vol. 14). P-
288, n. 116.— Editors of The Collected Works.)
jp5 : Psychology and Alchemy
there is more than a little evidence in the literature that
they realized it was a matter of their own transformation.
For instance, Gerhard Dorn exclaims, "Transmutemini in
vivos lapides philosophicos!" (Transform yourselves into
living philosophical stones!)
Hardly have conscious and unconscious touched when
they fly asunder on account of their mutual antagonism.
Hence, right at the beginning of the dream, the snakes that
are making off in opposite directions have to be removed;
i.e., the conflict between conscious and unconscious is at
once resolutely stopped and the conscious mind is forced
to stand the tension by means of the circumambulatio.
The magic circle thus traced will also prevent the uncon-
scious from breaking out again, for such an eruption
would be equivalent to psychosis. "Nonnulli perierunt in
opere nostro": "Not a few have perished in our work," we
can say with the author of the Rosarium. The dream
shows that the difficult operation of thinking in paradoxes
— a feat possible only to the superior intellect — has suc-
ceeded. The snakes no longer run away but settle them-
selves in the four corners, and the process of transforma-
tion or integration sets to work. The "transfiguration" and
illumination, the conscious recognition of the centre, has
been attained, or at least anticipated, in the dream. This
potential achievement — if it can be maintained, i.e., if the
conscious mind does not lose touch with the centre again 114
— means a renewal of personality. Since it is a subjective
state whose reality cannot be validated by any external
criterion, any further attempt to describe and explain it is
doomed to failure, for only those who have had this ex-
perience are in a position to understand and attest its
reality. "Happiness," for example, is such a noteworthy
reality that there is nobody who does not long for it, and
114 Cf. the commentary to dream 10, second series: "And, being
chained to the arms and breast of my mother, and to her substance,
I cause my substance to hold together and rest." ("Tractatus aureus,"
Chap. IV.)
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 39J
yet there is not a single objective criterion which would
prove beyond all doubt that this condition necessarily ex-
ists. As so often with the most important things, we have
to make do with a subjective judgment.
The arrangement of the snakes in the four corners is
indicative of an order in the unconscious. It is as if we
were confronted with a pre-existent ground plan, a kind of
Pythagorean tetraktys. I have very frequently observed the
number four in this connection. It probably explains the
universal incidence and magical significance of the cross
or of the circle divided into four. In the present case the
point seems to be to capture and regulate the animal in-
stincts so as to exorcise the danger of falling into uncon-
sciousness. This may well be the empirical basis of the
cross as that which vanquishes the powers of darkness.
In this dream the unconscious has managed to stage a
powerful advance by thrusting its contents dangerously
near to the conscious sphere. The dreamer appears to be
deeply entangled in the mysterious synthetic ceremony
and will unfailingly carry a lasting memory of the dream
into his conscious life. Experience shows that this results
in a serious conflict for the conscious mind, because it
is not always either willing or able to put forth the ex-
traordinary intellectual and moral effort needed to take a
paradox seriously. Nothing is so jealous as a truth.
As a glance at the history of the medieval mind will
show, our whole modern mentality has been moulded by
Christianity. (This has nothing to do with whether we
believe the truths of Christianity or not.) Consequently
the reconstruction of the ape in the sacred precincts as
proposed by the dream comes as such a shock that the
majority of people will seek refuge in blank incompre-
hension. Others will heedlessly ignore the abysmal depths
of the Dionysian mystery and will welcome the rational
Darwinian core of the dream as a safeguard against mystic
exaltation. Only a very few will feel the collision of the
two worlds and realize what it is all about. Yet the dream
398 : Psychology and Alchemy
says plainly enough that in the place where, according to
tradition, the deity dwells, the ape is to appear. This sub-
stitution is almost as bad as a Black Mass.
In Eastern symbolism the square — signifying the earth
in China, the padma or lotus in India — has the character
of the yoni: femininity. A man's unconscious is likewise
feminine and is personified by the anima. 115 The anima
also stands for the "inferior" function 116 and for that rea-
son frequently has a shady character; in fact she sometimes
stands for evil itself. She is as a rule the fourth person
(cf. dreams 10, n, 15). She is the dark and dreaded
maternal womb, which is of an essentially ambivalent na-
ture. The Christian deity is one in three persons. The
fourth person in the heavenly drama is undoubtedly the
devil. In the more harmless psychological version he is
merely the inferior function. On a moral valuation he is a
man's sin, a function belonging to him and presumably
masculine. The feminine element in the deity is kept very
dark, the interpretation of the Holy Ghost as Sophia being
considered heretical. Hence the Christian metaphysical
drama, the "Prologue in Heaven," has only masculine ac-
tors, a point it shares with many of the ancient mysteries.
But the feminine element must obviously be somewhere —
so it is presumably to be found in the dark. At any rate
that is where the ancient Chinese philosophers located it:
in the yin. 117 Although man and woman unite they never-
115 The idea of the anima as I define it is by no means a novelty but
an archetype which we meet in the most diverse places. It was also
known in alchemy, as the following scholium proves ("Tractatus
aureus," in BibL chem. curiosa, I, p. 417) : "Quemadmodum in sole
ambulantis corpus continuo sequitur umbra ... sic hermaphroditus
noster Adamicus, quamvis in forma masculi appareat semper tamen
in corpore occultatam Evam sive foeminam suam secum circumfert"
(As the shadow continually follows the body of one who walks in
the sun, so our hermaphroditic Adam, though he appears in the
form of a male, nevertheless always carries about with him Eve, or
his wife, hidden in his body).
116 Cf. supra, pp. 266-69.
117 "Tractatus aureus," Ars chemica, p. 12: "Verum masculus est
coelum foeminae et foemina terra masculi" (The male is the heaven
of the female, and the female is the earth of the male).
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 299
theless represent irreconcilable opposites which, when ac-
tivated, degenerate into deadly hostility. This primordial
pair of opposites symbolizes every conceivable pair of op-
posites that may occur: hot and cold, light and dark, north
and south, dry and damp, good and bad, conscious and
unconscious. In the psychology of the functions there are
two conscious and therefore masculine functions, the dif-
ferentiated function and its auxiliary, which are repre-
sented in dreams by, say, father and son, whereas the un-
conscious functions appear as mother and daughter. Since
the conflict between the two auxiliary functions is not
nearly as great as that between the differentiated and the
inferior function, it is possible for the third function —
that is, the unconscious auxiliary one — to be raised to
consciousness and thus made masculine. It will, however,
bring with it traces of its contamination with the inferior
function, thus acting as a kind of link with the darkness of
the unconscious. It was in keeping with this psychological
fact that the Holy Ghost should be heretically interpreted
as Sophia, for he was the mediator of birth in the flesh,
who enabled the deity to shine forth in the darkness of
the world. No doubt it was this association that caused
the Holy Ghost to be suspected of femininity, for Mary
was the dark earth of the field — "ilia terra virgo nondum
pluviis irrigata" (that virgin earth not yet watered by the
rains), as Tertullian called her. 118
The fourth function is contaminated with the uncon-
scious and, on being made conscious, drags the whole of
the unconscious with it. We must then come to terms with
the unconscious and try to bring about a synthesis of op-
posites. 119 At first a violent conflict breaks out, such as
m Adversus Judaeos, 13 (Migne, P.L., Vol. 2, col. 655).
"•Alchemy regarded this synthesis as one of its chief tasks. The
Turba philosophorum (ed. Ruska, p. 26) says: "Coniungitc ergo
masculinum servi rubei filium suae odorifcrac uxori ct iuncti artcm
gignunt" (Join therefore the male son of the red slave to his sweet-
scented wife, and joined together they will generate the Art). This
synthesis of opposites was often represented as a brothcr-and-sistcr
incest, which version undoubtedly goes back to the "Visio Anslci "
400 : Psychology and Alchemy
any reasonable man would experience when it became evi-
dent that he had to swallow a lot of absurd superstitions.
Everything in him would rise up in revolt and he would
defend himself desperately against what looked to him like
murderous nonsense. This situation explains the following
dreams.
19. Dream:
Ferocious war between two peoples.
This dream depicts the conflict. The conscious mind is
defending its position and trying to suppress the uncon-
scious. The first result of this is the expulsion of the fourth
function, but, since it is contaminated with the third, there
is a danger of the latter disappearing as well. Things would
then return to the state that preceded the present one, when
only two functions were conscious and the other two un-
conscious.
20. Dream:
There are two boys in a cave. A third falls in as if through
a pipe.
The cave represents the darkness and seclusion of the
unconscious; the two boys correspond to the two uncon-
scious functions. Theoretically the third must be the aux-
iliary function, which would indicate that the conscious
mind had become completely absorbed in the differentiated
function. The odds now stand 1 : 3, greatly in favour of
the unconscious. We may therefore expect a new advance
on its part and a return to its former position. The "boys"
are an allusion to the dwarf motif, of which more later.
21. Dream:
A large transparent sphere containing many little spheres.
A green plant is growing out of the top.
Art. ami}., I, where the cohabitation of Thabritius and Beya, the chil-
dren of the Rex marinus, is described (see Jung, Psychology and
Alchemy [Collected Works, Vol. 12], pars. 434^.).
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 401
The sphere is a whole that embraces all its contents;
life which has been brought to a standstill by useless strug-
gle becomes possible again. In Kundalini yoga the "green
womb" is a name for Ishvara (Shiva) emerging from his
latent condition.
22. Dream:
The dreamer is in an American hotel. He goes up in the
lift to about the third or fourth floor. He has to wait there
with a lot of other people. A friend (an actual person) is
also there and says that the dreamer should not have kept
the dark unknown woman waiting so long below, since he
had put her in his (the dreamer's) charge. The friend now
gives him an unsealed note for the dark woman, on which
is written: "Salvation does not come from refusing to take
part or from running away. Nor does it come from just
drifting. Salvation comes from complete surrender, with
one's eyes always turned to the centre." On the margin
of the note there is a drawing: a wheel or wreath with
eight spokes. Then a lift-boy appears and says that the
dreamer's room is on the eighth floor. He goes on up in the
lift, this time to the seventh or eighth floor. An unknown
red-haired man, standing there, greets him in a friendly
way. Then the scene changes. There is said to be a revolu-
tion in Switzerland: the military party is making propa-
ganda for "completely throttling the left." The objection
that the left is weak enough anyway is met by the answer
that this is just why it ought to be throttled completely.
Soldiers in old-fashioned uniforms now appear, who all
resemble the red-haired man. They load their guns with
ramrods, stand in a circle, and prepare to shoot at the
centre. But in the end they do not shoot and seem to march
away. The dreamer wakes up in terror.
The tendency to re-establish a state of wholeness — al-
ready indicated in the foregoing dream — once more comes
up against a consciousness with a totally different orienta-
tion. It is therefore appropriate that the dream should
402 : Psychology and Alchemy
have an American background. The lift is going up, as is
right and proper when something is coming "up" from the
"sub-"conscious. What is coming up is the unconscious
content, namely the mandala characterized by the number
four. Therefore the lift should rise to the fourth floor; but,
as the fourth function is taboo, it only rises to "about the
third or fourth." This happens not to the dreamer alone
but to many others as well, who must all wait like him
until the fourth function can be accepted. A good friend
then calls his attention to the fact that he should not have
kept the dark woman, i.e., the anima who stands for the
tabooed function, waiting "below," i.e., in the unconscious,
which was just the reason why the dreamer himself had
to wait upstairs with the others. It is in fact not merely
an individual but a collective problem, for the animation
of the unconscious which has become so noticeable in re-
cent times has, as Schiller foresaw, raised questions which
the nineteenth century never even dreamed of. Nietzsche
in his Zarathustra decided to reject the "snake" and the
"ugliest man," thus exposing himself to an heroic cramp
of consciousness which led, logically enough, to the col-
lapse foretold in the same book.
The advice given in the note is as profound as it is to the
point, so that there is really nothing to add. After it has
been more or less accepted by the dreamer the ascent can
be resumed. We must take it that the problem of the fourth
function was accepted, at least broadly, for the dreamer
now reaches the seventh or eighth floor, which means that
the fourth function is no longer represented by a quarter
but by an eighth, and is apparently reduced by a half.
Curiously enough, this hesitation before the last step to
wholeness seems also to play a part in Faust II, where, in
the Cabiri scene, "resplendent mermaids" come from over
the water; 120
120 [Based on the translation by Philip Wayne {Faust, Part II, pp.
145L). Slight modifications have been necessary to accommodate his
version to Jung's commentary. — Translator.]
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 403
Nereids and Bear we, on the waters riding,
Tritons: That which brings you all glad tiding.
In Chelone's giant shield
Gleams a form severe revealed:
These are gods that we are bringing;
Hail them, you high anthems singing.
Sirens: Little in length,
Mighty in strength!
Time-honoured gods
Of shipwreck and floods.
Nereids and Great Cabiri do we bear,
Tritons: That our feast be friendly fair:
Where their sacred powers preside
Neptune's rage is pacified.
A "form severe" is brought by "mermaids," feminine fig-
ures who represent as it were the sea and the waves of the
unconscious. The word "severe" reminds us of "severe"
architectural or geometrical forms which illustrate a defi-
nite idea without any romantic (feeling-toned) trimmings.
It "gleams" from the shell of a tortoise, 121 which, primitive
and cold-blooded like the snake, symbolizes the instinctual
side of the unconscious. The "image" is somehow identical
with the unseen, creative dwarf-gods, hooded and cloaked
manikins who are kept hidden in the dark cista, but who
also appear on the seashore as little figures about a foot
high, where, as kinsmen of the unconscious, they protect
navigation, i.e., the venture into darkness and uncertainty.
In the form of the Dactyls they are also the gods of in-
vention, small and apparently insignificant like the im-
pulses of the unconscious but endowed with the same
mighty power. (El gabir is "the great, the mighty one,")
121 The tcstudo (tortoise) is an alchemical instrument, a shulK *
with which the cooking-vessel uas con creel on ihc lire S
Rhenanus, Solis e puteo emergentti sive dissirtmionis chymott
libri tres (Frankfurt am Main, 1613), p. 4«-
404 ' Psychology and Alchemy
Nereids and
Tritons:
Sirens:
Three have followed where we led,
But the fourth refused to call;
He the rightful seer, he said,
His to think for one and all.
A god may count it sport
To set a god at naught.
Honour the grace they bring,
And fear their threatening.
It is characteristic of Goethe's feeling-toned nature that
the fourth should be the thinker. If the supreme principle
is "feeling is all," then thinking has to play an unfavourable
role and be submerged. Faust I portrays this development.
Since Goethe acted as his own model, thinking became
the fourth (taboo) function. Because of its contamination
with the unconscious it takes on the grotesque form of the
Cabiri, for the Cabiri, as dwarfs, are chthonic gods and
misshapen accordingly. ("I call them pot-bellied freaks of
common clay.") They thus stand in grotesque contrast to
the heavenly gods and poke fun at them (cf. the "ape of
God"). The Nereids and Tritons sing:
Seven there should really be.
Sirens: Where, then, stay the other three?
Nereids and That we know not. You had best
Tritons: On Olympus make your quest.
There an eighth may yet be sought
Though none other gave him thought.
Well inclined to us in grace,
Not all perfect yet their race.
Beings there beyond compare,
Yearning, unexplainable,
Press with hunger's pang to share
In the unattainable.
We learn that there are "really" seven of them; but
again there is some difficulty with the eighth as there was
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 405
before with the fourth. Similarly, in contradiction to the
previous emphasis placed on their lowly origin in the dark,
it now appears that the Cabiri arc actually to be found on
Olympus; for they are eternally striving from the depths to
the heights and are therefore always to be found both
below and above. The "severe image" is obviously an un-
conscious content that struggles towards the light. It seeks,
and itself is, what I have elsewhere called "the treasure
hard to attain." 122 This hypothesis is immediately con-
firmed:
Sirens: Fame is dimmed of ancient time,
Honour droops in men of old;
Though they have the Fleece of Gold,
Ye have the Cabiri.
The Golden Fleece is the coveted goal of the argosy, the
perilous quest that is one of the numerous synonyms for
attaining the unattainable. Thales makes this wise remark
about it:
That is indeed what men most seek on earth:
Tis rust alone that gives the coin its worth!
The unconscious is always the fly in the ointment, the
skeleton in the cupboard of perfection, the painful lie given
to all idealistic pronouncements, the earthlincss that clings
to our human nature and sadly clouds the crystal clarity
we long for. In the alchemical view rust, like verdigris, is
the metal's sickness. But at the same time this leprosy is
the vera prima materia, the basis for the preparation of the
philosophical gold. The Rosarium says:
Our gold is not the common gold. But thou hast inquired
concerning the greenness [viriditas, presumably verdigris),
deeming the bronze to be a leprous body on account of
the greenness it hath upon it. Therefore I say unto thee
,rJ Jung, Symbols of Transformation (Collected Works, Vol. 5).
index, s.v.
406 : Psychology and Alchemy
that whatever is perfect in the bronze is that greenness
only, because that greenness is straightway changed by
our magistery into our most true gold. 123
The paradoxical remark of Thales that the rust alone
gives the coin its true value is a kind of alchemical quip,
which at bottom only says that there is no light without
shadow and no psychic wholeness without imperfection.
To round itself out, life calls not for perfection but for
completeness; and for this the "thorn in the flesh" is
needed, the suffering of defects without which there is no
progress and no ascent.
The problem of three and four, seven and eight, which
Goethe has tackled here was a great puzzle to alchemy and
goes back historically to the texts ascribed to Christianos. 124
In the treatise on the production of the "mythical water" it
is said: "Therefore the Hebrew prophetess cried without
restraint, 'One becomes two, two becomes three, and out of
the third comes the One as the fourth.' " 125 In alchemical
literature this prophetess is taken to be Maria Prophe-
tissa, 126 also called the Jewess, sister of Moses, or the Copt,
and it is not unlikely that she is connected with the Maria
of Gnostic tradition. Epiphanius testifies to the existence
of writings by this Maria, namely the "Interrogationes
magnae" and "Interrogationes parvae," said to describe a
vision of how Christ, on a mountain, caused a woman to
come forth from his side and how he mingled himself with
her. 127 It is probably no accident that the treatise of Maria
123 Art. aurif., II, p. 220: a quotation from Senior. Viriditas is occa-
sionally called azoth, which is one of the numerous synonyms for
the stone.
124 According to Marcellin Berthelot (Origines de Valchimie [Paris,
1885], P- 100), the anonymous author called Christianos was a con-
temporary of Stephanos of Alexandria, and must therefore have lived
about the beginning of the 7th century.
123 Berthelot, Alchimistes grecs, VI, v, 6. The almost bestial
Kpavya£eiv (shriek) points to an ecstatic condition.
126 A treatise (of Arabic origin?) is ascribed to her under the title
"Practica Mariae Prophetissae in artem alchemicam," Art. aurif.,
I, pp. 3i9&\
127 Panarium, XXVI. Concerning further possible connections with
Mariamne and with the Mary Magdalene of the Pistis Sophia, cf.
Dream Symbolism in Relation to Alchemy : 407
(see n. 126) deals with the theme of the matrimonium
alchymicum in a dialogue with the philosopher Aros, 128
from which comes the saying, often repeated later: "Marry
gum with gum in true marriage." 129 Originally it was "gum
arabic," and it is used here as a secret name for the trans-
forming substance, on account of its adhesive quality. Thus
Khunrath 130 declares that the "red" gum is the "resin of
the wise" — a synonym for the transforming substance. This
substance, as the life force (vis animans), is likened by
another commentator to the "glue of the world" (glutinum
mundi), which is the medium between mind and body and
the union of both. 131 The old treatise "Consilium coniugii"
explains that the "philosophical man" consists of the "four
natures of the stone." Of these three are earthy or in the
earth, but "the fourth nature is the water of the stone,
namely the viscous gold which is called red gum and with
which the three earthy natures are tinted." 132 We learn here
that gum is the critical fourth nature: it is duplex, i.e.,
masculine and feminine, and at the same time the one and
only aqua mercurialis. So the union of the two is a kind of
self-fertilization, a characteristic always ascribed to the
mercurial dragon. 133 From these hints it can easily be seen
Hans Leisegang, Die Gfwsis (Leipzig, 1924), PP. uiU and Carl
Schmidt, "Gnostische Schriften in koptischer Sprache aus dem
Codex Brucianus heraus gegeben," Texte und Untersuchungen der
altchristUchen Literatur (Leipzig), VIII (1892), 1-692.
138 Aros = Horos. "I*iS -rrpo(piJTis tw via avrrjs (Berthelot, At-
chimistes grec 
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